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"  Inimitable  in  his  way.  Humor  he  has,  and  of  the  very  highest  order. 
It  is  not  broad  and  boisterous.  It  is  never  coarse.  It  never  runs  into 
burlesque.  It  is  as  delicate  as  Washington  Irving's,  and  quite  as  spon- 
taneous. But  humor  is  hardly  his  predominant  quality.  He  has  all  the 
wit  of  Holmes,  and  all  the  tenderness  of  Ik  Marvel.  While  he  never 
gushes,  and  never  piles  on  the  agonies  of  sentiment,  he  is  often  charm- 
ingly thoughtful,  earnest,  and  suggestive.  He  not  only  pleases,  but 
elevates;  not  only  amuses,  but  refreshes  the  soul."  — San  Francisco 
Bulletin. 

%*  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers.  Sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price  by 
the  Publishers, 

HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  Boston, 


SAUNTERINGS. 


HY 


CHARLES    D.   WARNER, 

AUTHOR   OF   "MY   SUMMER    IN    A   GARDEN." 


BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON,   OSGOOD,   AND   COMPANY. 


Entered,  according  lo  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1872, 

BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington 


CONTENTS. 


MISAPPREHENSIONS  CORRECTED.       ....  vii 

PARIS  AND  LONDON i 

Surface  Contrasts  of  Paris  and  London  3 
Paris  in  May.  —  French  Girls.  —  The  Emperor  at 

Longchamps 9 

An  Imperial  Review 14 

THE  Low  COUNTRIES  AND  RHINELAND  ...  19 
Amiens  and  Quaint  Old  Bruges        .         .         .         .21 

Ghent  and  Antwerp 27 

Amsterdam 30 

Cologne  and  St.  Ursula 37 

A  Glimpse  of  the  Rhine   ......  40 

Heidelberg 43 

ALPINE  NOTES 47 

Entering  Switzerland.  —  Berne,  its  Beauties  and 

Bears 49 

Hearing  the  Freiburg  Organ.  —  First  Sight  of  Lake 

I.eman 54 

Our  English  Friends .  •  57 

3956 


iv  CONTENTS. 

The  Diligence  to  Chamouny     .        .        .        .        .61 

The  Man  who  speaks  English 66 

A  Walk  to  the  Gorner-Grat      .....  70 

The  Baths  of  Leuk 76 

Over  the  Gemmi 80 

BAVARIA 83 

American  Impatience 85 

A  City  of  Color 88 

A  City  living  on  the  Past 92 

Outside  Aspects  of  Munich 96 

The  Military  Life  of  Munich 104 

The  Emancipation  of  Munich 107 

Fashion  in  the  Streets no 

The  Gottesacker  and  Bavarian  Funerals  .         .         .116 

The  October  Fest.  —  The  Peasants  and  the  King     .  120 

Indian  Summer 131 

A  Taste  of  Ultramontanism 134 

Changing  Quarters 141 

Christmas  Time.  —  Music 150 

LOOKING  FOR  WARM  WEATHER       .       .        .       .157 

From  Munich  to  Naples 159 

RAVENNA 169 

A  Dead  City .        .171 

Down  to  the  Pineta 175 

Dante  and  Byron 179 

Resting-place  of  Caesars.  —  Picture  of  a  Beautiful 

Heretic 181 

A  HIGH  DAY  IN  ROME 187 

Palm  Sunday  in  St.  Peter's 189 


CONTENTS.  v 

VESUVIUS 197 

Climbing  a  Volcar.o 199 

SORRENTO  DAYS 209 

Outlines 21 1 

The  Villa  Nardi 216 

Sea  and  Shore 223 

On  Top  of  the  House 228 

The  Price  of  Oranges 232 

Fascination 239 

Monkish  Perches 243 

A  Dry  Time 248 

Children  of  the  Sun 252 

Saint  Antonino 256 

Punta  Delia  Campanella 262 

Capri 268 

The  Story  of  Fiametta      .        .        ,        .        .        .273 

St.  Maria  a  Castello 280 

The  Myth  of  the  Sirens 286 


MISAPPREHENSIONS   CORRECTED. 

I  SHOULD  not  like  to  ask  an  indulgent  and  idle  public  tc 
saunter  about  with  me  under  a  misapprehension.  It 
would  be  more  agreeable  to  invite  it  to  go  nowhere  than 
somewhere ;  for  almost  every  one  has  been  somewhere,  and 
bus  written  about  it.  The  only  compromise  I  can  suggest  is, 
that  we  shall  go  somewhere,  and  not  learn  any  thing  about 
it.  The  instinct  of  the  public  against  any  thing  like  informa- 
tion in  a  volume  of  this  kind  is  perfectly  justifiable  ;  and  the 
reader  will  perhaps  discover  that  this  is  ill/  adapted  for  a  text- 
book in  schools,  or  for  the  use  of  competitive  candidates  in 
the  civil-service  examinations. 

Years  ago,  people  used  to  saunter  over  the  Atlantic,  and 
spend  weeks  in  filling  journals  with  their  monotonous  emo- 
tions. That  is  all  changed  now,  and  there  is  a  misapprehen- 
sion that  the  Atlantic  has  been  practically  subdued ;  bnt  no 
one  ever  gets  beyond  the  "  rolling  forties "  without  having 
this  impression  corrected. 

I  confess  to  have  been  deceived  about  this  Atlantic,  the 
roughest  and  windiest  of  oceans.  If  you  look  at  it  on  the 
map,  it  doesn't  appear  to  be  much,  and,  indeed,  it  is  spoken  of 
as  a  ferry.  What  with  the  eight  and  nine  days  passages  over 
it,  and  the  laying  of  the  cable,  which  annihilates  distance,  I 
had  the  impression  that  its  tedious  three  thousand  and  odd 
miles  had  been,  somehow,  partly  done  away  with ;  but  they 
are  all  there.  When  one  has  sailed  a  thousand  miles  due  east, 


viii          MISAPPREHENSIONS  CORRECTED. 

and  finds  that  he  is  then  nowhere  in  particular,  but  is  still 
out,  pitching  about  on  an  uneasy  sea,  under  an  inconstant  sky, 
and  that  a  thousand  miles  more  will  not  make  any  perceptible 
change,  he  begins  to  have  some  conception  of  the  unconquer- 
able ocean.  Columbus  rises  in  my  estimation. 

I  was  feeling  uncomfortable  that  nothing  had  been  done 
for  the  memory  of  Christopher  Columbus,  when  I  heard  some 
months  ago  that  thirty-seven  guns  had  been  fired  off  for  him 
in  Boston.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  they  were  some  satisfaction 
to  him.  They  were  discharged  by  countrymen  of  his,  who 
are  justly  proud  that  he  should  have  been  able,  after  a  search 
of  only  a  few  weeks,  to  find  a  land  where  the  hand-organ  had 
never  been  heard.  The  Italians,  as  a  people,  have  not  profited 
much  by  this  discovery ;  not  so  much,  indeed,  as  the  Spaniards, 
who  got  a  reputation  by  it  which  even  now  gilds  their  decay. 
That  Columbus  was  born  in  Genoa,  entitles  the  Italians  to 
celebrate  the  great  achievement  of  his  life ;  though  why  they 
should  discharge  exactly  thirty-seven  guns  I  do  not  know. 
Columbus  did  not  discover  the  United  States  :  that  we  partly 
found  ourselves,  and  partly  bought,  and  gouged  the  Mexicans 
out  of.  He  did  not  even  appear  to  know  that  there  was  a 
continent  here.  He  discovered  the  West  Indies,  which  he 
thought  were  the  East ;  and  ten  guns  would  be  enough  for 
them.  It  is  probable  that  he  did  open  the  way  to  the  dis- 
covery of  the  New  World.  If  he  had  waited,  however,  some- 
body else  would  have  discovered  it,  —  perhaps  some  English- 
man ;  and  then  we  might  have  been  spared  all  the  old  French 
and  Spanish  wars.  Columbus  let  the  Spaniards  into  the 
New  World ;  and  their  civilization  has  uniformly  been  a  curse 
to  it.  If  he  had  brought  Italians,  who  neither  at  that  time 
showed,  nor  since  have  shown,  much  inclination  to  come,  we 
should  have  had  the  opera,  and  made  it  a  paying  institution 
by  this  time.  Columbus  was  «•  vidcntly  a  person  who  liked  to 
sail  about,  and  didn't  care  mue'.i  for  rrma/^iinneps. 


MISAPPREHENSIONS  CORRECTED.  ix 

Perhaps  it  is  not  an  open  question  whether  Columbus  did 
ft  good  thing  in  first  coming  over  here,  —  one  that  we  ought 
to  celebrate  with  salutes  and  dinners.  The  Indians  never 
thanked  him,  for  one  party.  The  Africans  had  Hiiall  ground 
to  l)e  gratified  lor  the  market  he  opened  for  them.  Here  are 
two  continents  that  had  no  use  for  him.  He  led  Spain  into  a 
tlance  of  great  expectations,  which  ended  in  her  gorgeous 
ruin.  He  introduced  tobacco  into  Europe,  and  laid  the  foun- 
dation for  more  tracts  and  nervous  diseases  than  the  Romans 
had  in  a  thousand  years.  He  introduced  the  potato  into 
Ireland  indirectly ;  and  that  caused  such  a  rapid  increase  of 
population,  that  the  great  famine  was  the  result,  and  an  enor- 
mous emigration  to  New  York,  —  hence  Tweed  and  tho  con- 
stituency of  the  Ring.  Columbus  is  really  responsible  for 
New  York.  He  is  responsible  for  our  whole  tremor  us 
experiment  of  democracy,  open  to  all  comers,  the  best 
in  five  to  win.  We  cannot  yet  tell  how  it  is  coming  out,  what 
with  the  foreigners  and  the  communists  and  the  women.  On 
our  great  stage  we  are  playing  a  piece  of  mingled  tragedy 
and  comedy,  with  what  dgnoument  we  cannot  yet  say.  If  it 
comes  out  well,  we  ought  to  erect  a  monument  to  Christo- 
pher as  high  as  the  one  at  Washington  expects  to  be ;  and 
we  presume  it  is  well  to  fire  a  salute  occasionally  to  keep  the 
ancient  mariner  in  mind  while  we  are  trying  our  great  experi- 
ment. And  this  reminds  me  that  he  ought  to  have  had  a 
naval  salute. 

There  is  something  almost  heroic  in  the  idea  of  firing  off 
guns  for  a  man  who  has  been  stone-dead  for  about  four  cen- 
turies. It  must  have  had  a  lively  and  festive  sound  in  Bos- 
ton, when  the  meaning  of  the  salute  was  explained.  No  one 
could  hear  those  great  guns  without  a  quicker  beating  of  tha 
heart  in  gratitude  to  the  great  discoverer  who  had  made 
Boston  possible.  We  are  trying  to  "  realize  "  to  otirselvei 
the  importance  of  the  12th  of  October  as  an  anniversary  of 


x  MISAPPREHENSIONS  CORRECTED. 

our  potential  existence.  If  any  one  wants  to  see  how  vivid 
is  the  gratitude  to  Columbus,  let  him  start  out  among  our 
business-houses  with  a  subscription-paper  to  raise  money  for 
powder  to  be  exploded  in  his  honor.  And  yet  Columbus  was 
a  well-meaning  man ;  and,  if  he  did  not  discover  a  perfect  con- 
tinent, he  found  the  only  one  that  was  left. 

Columbus  made  voyaging  on  the  Atlantic  popular,  and  is 
responsible  for  much  of  the  delusion  concerning  it.  Its  great 
practical  use  in  this  fast  age  is  to  give  one  an  idea  of  distance 
and  of  monotony. 

I  have  listened  in  my  time  with  more  or  less  pleasure  to 
very  rollicking  songs  about  the  sea,  the  flashing  brine,  the 
spray  and  the  tempest's  roar,  the  wet  sheet  and  the  flowing 
sea,  a  life  on  the  ocean  wave,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  To  para- 
phrase a  land  proverb,  let  me  write  the  songs  of  the  sea,  and 
I  care  not  who  goes  to  sea  and  sings  'em.  A  square  yard  of 
solid  ground  is  worth  miles  of  the  pitching,  turbulent  stuff 
Its  inability  to  stand  still  for  one  second  is  the  plague  of  it.  To 
lie  on  deck  when  the  sun  shines,  and  swing  up  and  down, 
while  the  waves  run  hither  and  thither  and  toss  their  white 
caps,  is  all  well  enough :  to  lie  in  your  narrow  berth  and 
roll  from  side  to  side  all  night  long  ;  to  walk  up-hill  to  your 
stateroom  door,  and,  when  you  get  there,  find  you  have  got  to 
the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  opening  the  door  is  like  lifting  up 
a  trap-door  in  the  floor ;  to  deliberately  start  for  some  object, 
and,  before  you  know  it,  to  be  flung  against  it  like  a  bag  of 
sand ;  to  attempt  to  sit  down  on  your  sofa,  and  find  you  are 
sitting  up;  to  slip  and  slide  and  grasp  at  every  thing  within 
reach,  and  to  meet  everybody  leaning  and  walking  on  a  slant, 
as  if  a  heavy  wind  were  blowing,  and  the  laws  of  gravitation 
were  reversed ;  to  lie  in  your  berth,  and  hear  all  the  dishes  on 
the  cabin-table  go  sousing  off  against  the  wall  in  a  general 
smash;  to  sit  at  table  holding  your  soup-plate  with  one  hand, 
and  watching  for  a  chance  to  put  your  spoon  in  when  it  cornea 


AflSAPPRE  PENSIONS  CORRECTED.  xi 

high  tide  on  your  side  of  the  dish ;  to  vigilantly  watch  tho 
lurch  of  the  heavy  dislu's  while  holding  your  ^lass  and  you! 
]>l;ite  and  your  knife  and  fork,  and  not  to  notice  it  when 
Brown,  who  sits  next  you,  jjrts  the  whole  swash  of  the  gravy 
from  the  roast-In vf  dish  on  his  light-colored  pantaloons,  and 
see  the  look  of  dismay  that  only  Brown  can  assume  on  such 
an  occasion ;  to  see  Mrs.  Brown  advance  to  the  table,  sudden- 
ly stop  and  hesitate,  two  waiters  rush  at  her,  with  whom  sho 
struggles  wildly,  only  to  go  down  in  a  heap  with  them  in  the 
opposite  corner;  to  see  her  partially  recover,  but  only  to  shoot 
hack  again  through  her  stateroom  door,  and  be  seen  no  more ; 
— all  this  is  quite  pleasant  and  refreshing  if  you  are  tired  of  land, 
but  you  get  quite  enough  of  it  in  a  couple  of  weeks.  You 
become,  in  time,  even  a  little  tired  of  the  Jew  who  goes  about 
wishing  "  he  vas  a  veek  older ;  "  and  the  eccentric  man,  who 
looks  at  no  one,  and  streaks  about  the  cabin  and  on  deck, 
without  any  purpose,  and  plays  shuffle-board  alone,  always 
beating  himself,  and  goes  on  the  deck  occasionally  through  the 
sky-light  instead  of  by  the  cabin  door,  washes  himself  at  tho 
salt-water  pump,  and  won't  sleep  in  his  stateroom,  saying  ho 
isn't  used  to  sleeping  in  a  bed, —  as  if  the  hard,  narrow,  uneasy 
shelf  of  a  berth  was  any  thing  like  a  bed !  —  and  you  have  heard 
at  last  pretty  nearly  all  about  the  officers,  and  their  twenty 
and  thirty  years  of  sea-life,  and  every  ocean  and  port  on  tho 
habitable  globe  where  they  have  been.  There  comes  a  day 
when  you  are  quite  ready  for  land,  and  the  scream  of  tho 
"  gull  "  is  a  welcome  sound. 

Even  the  sailors  lose  the  vivacity  of  the  first  of  the  voyage. 
The  first  two  or  three  days  we  had  their  quaint  and  half- 
doleful  singing  in  chorus  as  they  pulled  at  the  ropes :  now 
they  arc  satisfied  with  short  ha-ho's,  and  uncadenced  grunts, 
It  used  to  be  that  the  leader  sang,  in  ever-varying  lines  of 
nonsense,  and  the  chorus  struck  in  with  fine  effect,  like  this  :  — 


xii          MISAPPREHENSIONS  CORRECTED. 

I  wish  I  was  in  Liverpool  town. 
(CJwrus.)  Handy-pan,  handy  O ! 

O  captain  I  where'd  ship  your  crew  ? 

Handy-pan,  handy  O I 
Oh  I  pull  away,  my  bully  crew, 

Handy-pan,  handy  0 1 

There  are  verses  enough  of  this  sort  to  reach  across  the 
Atlantic ;  and  they  are  not  the  worst  thing  about  it  either,  or 
the  most  tedious.  One  learns  to  respect  this  ocean,  but  not 
to  love  it;  and  he  leaves"  it  with  mingled  feelings  about 
Columbus. 

And  now,  having  crossed  it,  —  a  fact  that  cannot  be  con- 
cealed,—  let  us  not  be  under  the  misapprehension  that  we 
are  set  to  any  task  other  than  that  of  sauntering  where  it 
pleases  us. 


PARIS  AND   LONDON. 


SURFACE  CONTRASTS  OF  PARIS  AND 
LONDON. 

I  WONDER  if  it  is  the  Channel  ?  Almost  every  thing 
is  laid  to  the  Channel :  it  has  no  friends.  The 
sailors  call  it  the  nastiest  bit  of  water  in  the  world.  All 
travellers  anathematize  it.  I  have  now  crossed  it  three 
times  in  different  places,  by  long  routes  and  short  ones, 
and  have  always  found  it  as  comfortable  as  any  sailing 
anywhere,  —  sailing  being  one  of  the  most  tedious  and 
disagreeable  inventions  of  a  fallen  race.  But  such  is  not 
the  usual  experience :  most  people  would  make  great 
sacrifices  to  avoid  the  hour  and  three-quarters  in  one  of 
those  loathsome  little  Channel  boats,  —  they  always  call 
them  loathsome,  though  I  didn't  see  but  they  are  as 
good  as  any  boats.  I  have  never  found  any  boat  that 
hasn't  a  detestable  habit  of  bobbing  round.  The  Chan- 
nel is  hated :  and  no  one  who  has  much  to  do  with  it  is 
surprised  at  the  projects  for  bridging  it  and  for  boring  a 
hole  under  it ;  though  I  have  scarcely  ever  met  an 
Englishman  who  wants  either  done,  —  he  does  not  desire 
any  more  facile  communication  with  the  French  than 
now  exists.  The  traditional  hatred  may  not  be  so  strong 
as  it  was,  but  it  is  hard  to  say  on  which  side  is  the  most 
ignorance  and  contempt  of  the  other. 

It  must  be  the  Channel :  that  is  enough  to  produce  a 
physical  disagreement  even  between  the  two  coasts ;  and 
there  cannot  be  a  greater  contrast  in  the  cultivated 
world  than  between  the  two  lands  lying  so  close  to  each 
other;  and  the  contrast  of  their  capitals  is  even  more 

3 


4  SURFACE  CONTRASTS 

decided,  —  I  was  about  to  say  rival  capitals,  but  they  have 
not  enough  in  common  to  make  them  rivals.  I  have 
lately  been  over  to  London  for  a  week,  going  by  the 
Dieppe  and  New-Haven  route  at  night,  and  returning  by 
another ;  and  the  contrasts  I  speak  of  were  impressed 
upon  me  anew.  Every  thing  here  in  and  about  Paris  was 
in  the  green  and  bloom  of  spring,  and  seemed  to  me  very 
lovely ;  but  my  first  glance  at  an  English  landscape 
made  it  all  seem  pale  and  flat.  We  went  up  from  New 
Haven  to  London  in  the  morning,  and  feasted  our  eyes 
all  the  way.  The  French  foliage  is  thin,  spindling, 
sparse  ;  the  grass  is  thin  and  light  in  color  —  in  contrast. 
The  English  trees  are  massive,  solid  in  substance  and 
color;  the  grass  is  thick,  and  green  as  emerald;  the  turf 
is  like  the  heaviest  Wilton  carpet.  The  whole  effect  is 
that  of  vegetable  luxuriance  and  solidity,  as  it  were  a 
tropical  luxuriance,  condensed  and  hardened  by  northern 
influences.  If  my  eyes  remember  well,  the  French  land- 
scapes are  more  like  our  own,  in  spring  tone,  at  least ;  but 
the  English  are  a  revelation  to  us  strangers  of  what  green 
really  is,  and  what  grass  and  trees  can  be.  I  had  been 
told  that  we  did  well  to  see  England  before  going  to  the 
Continent,  for  it  would  seem  small  and  only  pretty  after- 
wards. Well,  leaving  out  Switzerland,  I  have  seen  noth- 
ing in  that  beauty  which  satisfies  the  eye  and  wins  the 
heart  to  compare  with  England  in  spring.  When  we 
annex  it  to  our  sprawling  country,  which  lies  out-doors 
in  so  many  climates,  it  will  make  a  charming  little 
retreat  for  us  in  May  and  June,  —  a  sort  of  garden  of 
delight,  whence  we  shall  draw  our  May  butter  and  our 
June  roses.  It  will  only  be  necessary  to  put  it  under 
glass  to  make  it  pleasant  the  year  round. 

When  we  passed  within  the  hanging  smoke  of  London 
town,  threading  our  way  amid  numberless  railway  tracks, 
sometimes  over  a  road  and  sometimes  under  one,  now 
burrowing  into  the  ground,  and  now  running  along 
among  the  chimney-pots,  —  when  we  came  into  the  pale 
light  and  the  thickening  industry  of  a  London  day,  we 


OF  PARIS  AND  LONDON.  5 

could  but  at  once  contrast  Paris.  Unpleasant  weather 
usually  minces  places  to  an  equality  ui'disa<jreeal)len<'  — . 
But  Paris,  with  its  wide  streets,  light,  handsome  houses, 
£ay  windows,  and  smiling  little  parks  and  fountains, 
keeps  up  a  tolerably  pleasant  aspect,  let  the  weather  do 
its  worst.  But  London,  with  its  low,  dark,  smutty  brii-k 
houses  and  insignificant  streets,  settles  down  hopelessly 
into  the  (Limps  when  the  weather  is  bad.  Even  with 
the  sun  doing  its  best  on  the  eternal  cloud  of  smoke,  it  is 
dingy  and  gloomy  enough,  and  so  dirty,  after  spic-span, 
shining  Paris.  And  there  is  a  contrast  in  the  matter 
of  order  and  system  ;  the  lack  of  both  in  London  is  ap- 
parent. You  detect  it  in  public  places,  in  crowds,  in  the 
streets.  The  " social  evil "  is  bad  enough  in  its  demon- 
strations in  Paris  :  it  is  twice  as  offensive  in  London.  I 
have  never  seen  a  drunken  woman  in  Paris  :  I  saw  many 
of  them  in  the  daytime  in  London.  I  saw  men  and 
women  fight  in  the  streets,  —  a  man  kick  and  pound  a  wo- 
man ;  and  nobody  interfered.  There  is  a  brutal  streak  in 
the  Anglo-Saxon,  I  fear,  —  a  downright  animal  coarseness, 
that  does  not  exhibit  itself  the  other  side  of  the  Channel. 
It  is  a  proverb,  that  the  London  policemen  are  never  at 
hand.  The  stout  fellows  with  their  clubs  look  as  if  they 
mUrht  do  service ;  but  what  a  contrast  they  are  to  the 
Paris  sergents  de  ville  I  The  latter,  with  his  dress-coat, 
cocked  hat,  long  rapier,  white  gloves,  neat,  polite,  atten- 
tive, alert,  — always  with  the  manner  of  a  Jesuit  turned 
soldier,  —  you  learn  to  trust  very  much,  if  not  respect ; 
and  you  feel  perfectly  secure  that  he  will  protect  you,  and 
give  you  your  rights  in  any  corner  of  Paris.  It  does  look 
as  it' he  might  slip  that  slender  rapier  through  your  body 
in  a  second,  and  pull  it  out  and  wipe  it,  and  not  move  a 
muscle ;  but  I  don't  think  he  would  do  it  unless  he  were 
directly  ordered  to.  He  would  not  be  likely  to  knock 
you  down  and  drag  you  out,  in  mistake  for  the  rowdy 
who  was  assaulting  you. 

A  great  contrast  between  the  habits  of  the  people  of 
London  and  Paris  is  shown  by  their  eating  and  drinking. 


6  SURFACE  CONTRASTS 

Paris  is  brilliant  with  cafes :  all  the  world  frequents  them 
to  sip  coffee  (and  too  often  absinthe),  read  the  papers, 
and  gossip  over  the  news ;  take  them  away,  as  all  travel- 
lers know,  and  Paris  would  not  know  itself.  There  is  not 
a  cafe  in  London  :  instead  of  cafe's,  there  are  gin-mills  ; 
instead  of  light  wine,  there  is  heavy  beer.  The  restau- 
rants and  restaurant  life  are  as  different  as  can  be.  You 
Can  get  any  thing  you  wish  in  Paris :  you  can  live  very 
cheaply  or  very  dearly,  as  you  like.  The  range  is  more 
limited  in  London.  I  do  not  fancy  the  usual  run  of  Paris 
restaurants.  You  get  a  great  deal  for  your  money,  in 
variety  and  quantity ;  but  you  don't  exactly  know  what 
it  is  :  and  in  time  you  tire  of  odds  and  ends,  which  destroy 
your  hunger  without  exactly  satisfying  you.  For  myself, 
after  a  pretty  good  run  of  French  cookery  (and  it  beats 
the.  world  for  making  the  most  out  of  little),  when  I  sat 
down  again  to  what  the  eminently-respectable  waiter  in 
white  and  black  calls  "  a  dinner  off  the  joint,  sir,"  with 
what  belongs  to  it,  and  ended  up  with  an  attack  on  a 
section  of  a  cheese  as  big  as  a  bass-drum,  not  to  forget  a 
pewter  mug  of  amber  liquid,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  touched 
bottom  again,  —  got  something  substantial,  had  what 
you  call  a  square  meal.  The  English  give  you  the  sub- 
stantials,  and  better,  I  believe,  than  any  other  people. 
Thackeray  used  to  come  over  to  Paris  to  get  a  good  din- 
ner now  and  then.  I  have  tried  his  favorite  restaurant 
here,  the  cuisine  of  which  is  famous  far  beyond  the  banks 
of  the  Seine  ;  but  I  think  if  he,  hearty  trencher-man  that 
he  was,  had  lived  in  Paris,  he  would  have  gone  to  Lon- 
don for  a  dinner  oftener  than  he  came  here. 

And  as  for  a  lunch,  —  this  eating  is  a  fascinating  theme, 
—  commend  me  to  a  quiet  inn  of  England.  We  happened 
to  be  out  at  Kew  Gardens  the  other  afternoon.  You 
ought  to  go  to  Kew,  even  if  the  Duchess  of  Cambridge  is 
not  at  home.  There  is  not  such  a  park  out  of  England, 
considering  how  beautiful  the  Thames  is  there.  What 
splendid  trees  it  has  1  the  horse-chestnut,  now  a  mass  of 
pink-and-white  blossoms,  from  its  broad  base,  which  resta 


OF  PAK7S  AND  LONDON'.  ^ 

on  the  ground,  to  its  hi-h  rounded  dome  ;  (lie  hawthorns, 
white  and  red,  in  full  Mower;  tin-  sweeps  :ind  Blades  of 
living  green, —  turf  on  which  yon  walk  with  a  grateful 

of  drawing  life  directly  from  the  yielding,  bountiful 
earth,  —  :i  'jreen  set  out  and  heightened  by  flowers  in 
masses  of  color  (a  great  variety  of  rhododendrons,  for 
one  thing),  to  say  nothing  of  magnificent  greenhouses 
and  outlying  flower-gardens.  Just  heyondare.  Richmond 
Hill  and  Hampton  Court,  and  live  or  six  centuries  of  tra- 
dition and  history  and  romance.  Before  yon  enter  the 
Harden,  yon  pass  the  green.  On  one  side  of  it  are  cottages 
and  on  the  other  the  old  village  chureh  and  its  quiet 
churchyard.  Some  hoys  were  playing  cricket  on  the 
sward,  and  children  were  getting  as  intimate  with  the 
turf  and  the  sweet  earth  as  their  nurses  would  let,  them. 
We  turned  -into  a  little  cottage,  which  gave  notice  of  hos- 
pitality for  a  consideration  ;  and  were  shown,  by  a  pretty 
maid  in  calico,  into  an  upper  room,  —  a  neat,  cheerful,  com- 
mon room,  with  bright  flowers  in  the  open  windows,  and 
white  muslin  curtains  for  contrast.  We  looked  out  on 
the  green  and  over  to  the  beautiful  churchyard,  where 
one  of  England's  greatest  painters,  Gainsborough,  lies  in 
rural  repose.  It  is  nothing  to  you,  who  always  dine  oil' 
the  best  at  home,  and  never  encounter  dirty  restaurants 
and  snuffy  inns,  or  run  the  gauntlet  of  Continental  hotels, 
everv  meal  being  an  experiment  of  great  interest,  if  not 
of  danger,  to  say  that  this  brisk  little  waitress  spread  a 
snowy  cloth,  and  set  thereon  meat  and  bread  and  but- 
ter and  a  salad:  that  conveys  no  idea  to  your  mind. 
Because  you  cannot  see  that  the  loaf  of  wheaten  bread 
was  white  and  delicate,  and  full  of  the  goodness  of  the 
grain  ;  or  that  the  butter,  yellow  as  a  guinea,  tasted  of 
grass  and  cows,  and  all  the  rich  juices  of  the  verdant 

and  was  not  mere  flavorless  grease  ;  or  that  the  cuts 
of  roast  beef,  fat  and  lean,  had  qualities  that  indicate  to 
me  some  moral  elevation  in  the  cattle,  —  high-toned,  Vh 
meat ;  or  that  the  salad  was  crisp  and  delicious,  and  rather 
seemed  to  enjoy  being  eaten,  at  least,  didn't  disconsolately 


8  PARIS  AND  LONDON. 

•wilt  down  at  the  prospect,  as  most  salad  does.  I  do  not 
wonder  that  Walter  Scott  dwells  so  much  on  eating,  or 
lets  his  heroes  pull  at  the  pewter  mugs  so  often.  Per- 
haps one  might  find  a  better  lunch  in  Paris,  but  he  surely 
couldn't  find  this  one. 


PARIS  IN  MAY.  — FRENCH  GIRLS.  — THE 
EMPEROR  AT  LONGCHAMPS. 

~TT  was  the  first  of  May  when  we  came  up  from  Italy. 
I       The  spring  grew  on  us  as  we   advanced  north  : 
vegetation  seemed  further  along  than  it  was  south  of  tho 
Alps.     Paris  was  bathed  in  sunshine,  wrapped  in  deli- 
cious weather,  adorned  with  all  the  delicate  colors  of 
blushing  spring.     Now  the  horse-chestnuts  are  all  in 
bloom,  and  so  is  the  hawthorn  ;  and  in  parks  and  gar- 
dens there  are  rows  and  alleys  of  trees,  with  blossoms 
of  pink  and  of  white;  patches  of  flowers  set  in  the  light 
green  grass;  solid  masses  of  gorgeous  color,  which  fill  all 
he  air  with  perfume;  fountains  that  dance  in  the  sun- 
light as  if  just  released  from  prison  ;  and  everywhere  the 
soil  suffusion  of  May.     Young  maidens  who  make  their 
IA  =;t  communion  go  into  the  churches  in  processions  of 
fctti'dreds,  all  in  white,  from  the  flowing  veil  to  the  satin 
glij  ->er ;  and  I  see  them  everywhere  for  a  week  after  the 
ter  3  nony,  in  their  robes  of  innocence,  often  with  bouquets 
o/    lowers,  and  attended  by  their  friends;  all  concerned 
inak  '\w  it  a  joyful  holiday,  as  it  ought  to  be.     I  hear,  of 
course  with  what  false  ideas  of  life  these  girls  are  edu- 
cated    how  they  are  watched  before  marriage ;  how  the 
mania  ;•••  is  only  one  of  arrangement,  and  what  liberty 
they  ea  ;  u*ly  seek  afterwards.     I  met  a  charming  Paris 
lady  last   vinter  in  Italy,  recently  married,  who  said  slio 
had  never  ueen  in  the  Louvre  in  her  life ;  never  had  seen 
any  of  the  magnifio  nt  pictures  or  world-famous  statuary 
there,  because  girls  were  not  allowed  to  go  there*  lest 

a 


io  PARIS  IN  MA  Y. 

they  should  see  something  that  they  ought  not  to  see.  1 
suppose  they  look  with  wonder  at  the  young  American 
girls  who  march  up  to  any  thing  that  ever  was  created 
with  undismayed  front. 

Another  Frenchwoman,  a  lady  of  talent  and  the  best 
breeding,  recently  said  to  a  friend,  in  entire  unconscious- 
ness that  she  was  saying  any  thing  remarkable,  that,  when 
she  was  seventeen,  her  great  desire  was  to  marry  one 
of  her  uncles  (a  thing  not  very  unusual  with  the  papal 
dispensation),  in  order  to  keep  all  the  money  in  the 
family  !  That  was  the  ambition  of  a  girl  of  seventeen. 

I  like,  on  these  sunny  days,  to  look  into  the  Luxem- 
bourg Garden :  nowhere  else  is  the  eye  more  delighted 
with  life  and  color.  In  the  afternoon,  especially,  it  is  a 
baby-show  worth  going  far  to  see.  The  avenues  are  full 
of  children,  whose  animated  play,  light  laughter,  and 
happy  chatter,  and  pretty,  picturesque  dress,  make  a  sort 
of  tairy  grove  of  the  garden;  and  all  the  nurses  of  that 
quarter  bring  their  charges  there,  and  sit  in  the  shade, 
sewing,  gossiping,  and  comparing  the  merits  of  the  little 
dears.  One  baby  differs  from  another  in  glory,  I  sup- 
pose ;  but  I  think  on  such  days  that  they  are  all  lovely, 
taken  in  the  mass,  and  all  in  sweet  harmony  with  the 
delicious  atmosphere,  the  tender  green,  and  the  other 
flowers  of  spring.  A  baby  can't  do  better  than  to  spend 
its  spring  days  in  the  Luxembourg  Garden. 

There  are  several  ways  of  seeing  Paris  besides  roam* 
ing  up  and  down  before  the  blazing  shop-windows,  and 
lounging  by  daylight  or  gaslight  along  the  crowded  and 
gay  boulevards ;  and  one  of  the  best  is  to  go  to  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne  on  a  fete-day,  or  when  the  races  are  in  prog- 
ress. This  famous  wood  is  very  disappointing  at  first  to 
one  who  has  seen  the  English  parks,  or  who  remembers 
the  noble  trees  and  glades  and  avenues  of  that  at  Munich. 
To  be  sure,  there  is  a  lovely  little  lake  and  a  pretty  arti- 
ficial cascade,  and  the  roads  and  walks  are  good ;  but  the 
trees  are  all  saplings,  and  nearly  all  the  "wood"  is  a 
thicket  of  small  stuff.  Yet  there  is  green  grass  that  one 


PARIS  LV  MAY.  \\ 

can  roll  on,  and  there  is  a  Lrrove  of  small  pines  that  nnu 
fan  sit  under.  It  is  a  pleasant  place  to  drive  toward 
evening;  but  its  pvat  attraction  is  the  crowd  there.  All 
the  principal  avenues  are  lined  with  chairs,  and  thero 
people  sit  to  watch  the  streams  of  carria 

I  went  out  to  the  Hois  the  oilier  day,  when  there  were 
raees  ^oin-j,-  on;  not  that  I  went  to  the  races,  lor  I  know 
nothing  about  them,  jwr  .sr,  and  care  less.  All  running 
races  are  pretty  much  alike.  You  see  a,  lean  horse,  neck 
and  tail,  flash  by  you,  with  a  jockey  in  colors  on  his  hack  ; 
and  that  is  the  whole  of  it.  Unless  you  have  some  money 
on  it,  in  the  pool  or  otherwise,  it  is  impossible  to  raise 
any  excitement.  Tin;  day  I  went  out,  the  Champs 
Klysees,  on  both  sides,  its  whole  length,  was  crowded 
with  people,  rows  ami  ranks  of  them  sitting  in  chairs  and 
on  benches.  The  Avenue  de  ITmperatriee,  from  the  Are 
de  TEtoileto  the  entrance  of  the,  15ois,  was  full  of  prome- 
naders  ;  and  the  main  avenues  of  the  Bois,  from  the  chief 
entrance  to  the  race-course,  were  lined  with  people,  who 
stood  or  sat,  simply  to  see  the  passing  show.  There 
could  not  have  been  less  than  ten  miles  of  spectator,  in 
double  or  triple  rows,  who  had  taken  places  that  after- 
noon to  watch  the  turnouts  of  fashion  and  rank.  These 
jjreat  avenues  were  at  all  times,  from  three  till  seven, 
filled  with  vehicles  ;  and  at  certain  points,  and  late  in  the 
day.  there  was,  or  would  have  been  anywhere  else  except 
in  Paris,  a  jam.  I  saw  a  <jreat  many  splendid  hor.M-s, 
but  not  so  many  fine  liveries  as  one  will  see  on  a  swell- 
day  in  London.  There  was  one  that  I  liked.  A  hand- 
some carriage,  with  one  seat,  was  drawn  by  four  lame 
and  elegant  black  horses,  the  two  near  horses  ridden  by 
postilions  in  blue  and  silver, —  blue  roundabouts,  white 
breeches  and  top-boots,  around-topped  silver  cap,  and  the 
hair,  or  wrii_r.  powdered,  and  showing  just  a  little  behind. 
A  footman  mounted  behind,  seated,  wore  the  same  colors ; 
and  the  whole  establishment  was  exceedingly  tonnish. 

The  race-track  (LongchampS,  as  it  is  called),  broad 
ami  beautiful  spriirry  turt;  is  not  dilferent  from  somu 


12  PARIS  IN  MA  Y. 

others,  except  that  the  enclosed  oblong  space  is  not  flat, 
but  undulating  just  enough  for  beauty,  and  so  framed  in 
by  graceful  woods,  and  looked  on  by  chateaux  and  upland 
forests,  that  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  a  sweeter  bit 
of  greensward.  St.  Cloud  overlooks  it,  and  villas  also 
regard  it  from  other  heights.  The  day  I  saw  it,  the  horse- 
chestnuts  were  in  bloom ;  and.  there  was,  on  the  edges,  a 
cloud  of  pink-arid- white  blossoms,  that  gave  a  soft  and 
charming  appearance  to  the  entire  landscape.  The  crowd 
in  the  grounds,  in  front  of  the  stands  for  judges,  royal  ty> 
and  people  who  are  privileged  or  will  pay  for  places,  was, 
I  suppose,  much  as  usual,  —  an  excited  throng  of  young 
and  jockey-looking  men,  with  a  few  women-gamblers  in 
their  midst,  making  up  the  pool ;  a  pack  of  carriages 
along  the  circuit  of  the  track,  with  all  sorts  of  people, 
except  the  very  good;  and  conspicuous  the  elegantly- 
habited  daughters  of  sin  and  satin,  with  servants  in 
livery,  as  if  they  had  been  born  to  it ;  gentlemen  and 
ladies  strolling  about,  or  reclining  on  the  sward,  and  a 
refreshment-stand  in  lively  operation. 

When  the  bell  rang,  we  all  cleared  out  from  the  track, 
and  I  happened  to  get  a  position  by  the  railing.  I  was 
looking  over  to  the  Pavilion,  where  I  supposed  the  Em- 
peror to  be,  when  the  man  next  to  me  cried,  "  Voila  \  " 
and,  looking  up,  two  horses  brushed  right  by  my  face,  of 
which  I  saw  about  two  tails  and  one  neck,  and  they  were 
gone.  Pretty  soon  they  came  round  again,  and  one  was 
ahead,  as  is  apt  to  be  the  case;  and  somebody  cried, 
"  Bully  for  Therese  1 "  or  French  to  that  effect,  and  it 
was  all  over.  Then  we  rushed  across  to  the  emperor's 
Pavilion,  except  that  I  walked  with  all  the  dignity  con- 
sistent with  rapidity,  arid  there,  in  the  midst  of  his  suite, 
sat  the  Man  of  December,  a  stout,  broad,  and  heavy- 
faced  man  as  you  know,  but  a  man  who  impresses  one 
with  a  sense  of  force  and  purpose,  —  sat,  as  I  say,  and 
looked  at  us  through  his  narrow,  half-shut  eyes,  till  ho 
was  satisfied  that  I  had  got  his  features  through  my  glass, 
when  he  deliberately  arose  and  went  in. 


/V/A'AV  IN  MAY.  13 

All  Paris  was  out  that  day,  —  it  is  ahvavs  out,  by  (lio 
xvav,  when  the  sun  shines,  and  in  whatever  part  of  the 
i-iiy  you  happen  to  In-;  and  it  sunned  to  me  there,  was  a 
special  throng  clear  down  to  the  gate  of  the  Tuileries,  to 
MV  the  emperor  and  the  rest  of  us  come  home.  He.  went 
round  by  the.  Rue  Rivoli,  but  I  walked  through  the  gar- 
dens. Tlu'  soldiers  from  Africa  sat  by  the  gilded  portals, 
as  usual,  —  aliens,  and  yet  always  with  the;  port  of  con- 
querors here  in  Paris.  Their  nonchalant  indillerenee 
and  soldierly  bearing  always  remind  me  of  the  sort  of 
liuve  the  Emperor  has  ut  hand  to  secure  his  throne.  I 
think  the  blouses  must  look  askance  at  these  satraps  of 
the  desert.  The  single  jet  fountain  in  the  basin  was 
springing  its  highest,  —  a  quivering  piUar  of  water  to 
match  the  stone  shaft  of  Egypt  which  stai/ds  close  by. 
The  sun  illuminated  it,  and  threw  a  rainbow  from  it  a 
hundred  feet  long,  upon  the  white  and  green  dome  of 
chestnut-trees  near.  When  I  was  farther  down  the 
avenue,  I  had  the  dancing  column  of  water,  the  obelisk, 
and  the  Arch  of  Triumph  all  in  line,  and  the  rosy  sunset 
beyond. 


AN  IMPERIAL  REVIEW. 


E  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  came  up  to 
J_  Paris  in  the  beginning  of  May,  from  Italy,  Egypt, 
and  alongshore,  staid  at  a  hotel  on  the  Place  Ven- 
domc.  where  they  can  get  beef  that  is  not  horse,  and 
is  rare,  and  beer  brewed  in  the  royal  dominions,  and 
have  been  entertained  with  cordiality  by  the  Emperor. 
Among  the  spectacles  which  he  has  shown  them,  is  one 
calculated  to  give  them  an  idea  of  his  peaceful  inten- 
tions,—  a  grand  review  of  cavalry  and  artillery  at  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne.  It  always  seems  to  me  a  curious  com- 
ment upon  the  state  of  our  modern  civilization,  that,  when 
one  prince  visits  another  here  in  Europe,  the  first  thing 
that  the  visited  does,  by  way  of  hospitality,  is  to  get  out 
his  troops,  and  show  his  rival  how  easily  he  could 
"  lick  "  him,  if  it  came  to  that.  It  is  a  little  puerile.  At 
any  rate,  it  is  an  advance  upon  the  old  fashion  of  getting 
up  a  joust  at  arms,  and  inviting  the  guest  to  come  out 
and  have  his  head  cracked  in  a  friendly  way. 

The  review,  which  had  been  a  good  deal  talked  about, 
came  off  in  the  afternoon ;  and  all  the  world  went  to  it. 
The  avenues  of  the  Bois  were  crowded  with  carriages, 
and  the  walks  with  footpads.  Such  a  constellation  of 
royal  personages  met  on  one  field  must  be  seen ;  for, 
bes.des  the  imperial  family  and  Albert  Edward  and  his 
Danish  beauty,  there  was  to  be  the  Archduke  of  Aus- 
tria, and  no  end  of  titled  personages  besides.  At  three 
o'clock  the  royal  company,  in  the  Emperor's  carriages, 
drove  upon  the  training-ground  of  the  Bois,  where  the 
14 


AN  IMPERIAL  RE  VIE  IV.  1 5 

troops  awaited  thrm.  All  the  party,  except  the  Princes 
•)t'  Wales,  then  mounted  horses,  and  rode  along  the  lines, 
and  afterwards  retired  to  a  wood-covered  knoll  at  one 
rnd  to  witness  the  evolutions.  The  training-ground  is  a 

nohle,  slightly-undulating  piece,  of  greensward,  perhaps 
three-quarters  of  :i  mile  long  and  half  that  in  breadth, 
hedged  about  with  graceful  trees,  and  bounded  on  one, 
side  hy  the  Seine.  Its  borders  were,  rimmed  that  day 
with  thousands  of  people,  on  foot  and  in  carriages,  --  a 
gay  sight,  io  itself,  of  color  and  fashion.  A  more  brilliant 
spectacle  than  the  field  presented  cannot  well  be  ima- 
gined. Attention  was  divided  between  the  gentle  emi- 
nence where  the  imperial  party  stood,  —  a  throng  of  noble 
persons  backed  by  the  gay  and  glittering  Guard  of  tbe 
Emperor,  as  brave  a  show  as  chivalry  ever  made, — • 
and  the  field  of  green,  with  its  long  lines  in  martial 
array;  every  variety  of  splendid  uniforms,  the  colors  and 
combinations  that  most  dazzle  and  attract,  with  shining 
brass  and  gleaming  steel,  and  magnificent  horses  of  war, 
regiments  of  black,  gray,  and  bay. 

The  evolutions  were  such  as  to  stir  the  blood  of  the 
most  sluggish.  A  regiment,  full  front,  would  charge 
tlown  upon  a  dead  run  from  the  far  field,  men  shouting, 
sabres  Hashing,  horses  thundering  along,  so  that  the 
ground  shook,  towards  the  imperial  party,  and,  when 
near,  stop  suddenly,  wheel  to  right  and  left,  and  gallop 
back.  Others  would  succeed  them  rapidly,  coining  up  the 
centre  while  their  predecessors  filed  down  the  sides ;  so 
that  the  whole  field  was  a  moving  mass  of  splendid  eolor 
and  glancing  steel.  Now  and  then  a  rider  was  unhorsed 
in  the  furious  rush,  and  went  scrambling  out  of  harm, 
while  the  steed  galloped  off  with  free  rein.  This  display 
was  followed  by  that  of  the  flying  artillery,  battalion  after 
oattalion,  which  came  clattering  and  roaring  aloii'j,  in 
double  lines  stretching  half  across  the  field,  stopped  and 
rapidly  discharged  its  pieces,  waking  up  all  the  region 
with  echoes,  filling  the  plain  with  the  smoke  of  gunpow- 
der, and  Darling  into  rearing  activity  all  the  carriage- 


16  AN  IMPERIAL  RE  VIE  W. 

horses  in  the  Bois.  How  long  this  continued  I  do  not 
know,  nor  how  many  men  participated  in  the  review ; 
but  they  seemed  to  pour  up  from  the  far  end  in  unend- 
ing columns.  I  think  the  regiments  must  have  charged 
over  and  over  again.  It  gave  some  people  the  impression 
that  there  were  a  hundred  thousand  troops  on  the 
ground.  I  set  it  at  fifteen  to  twenty  thousand.  Gallig- 
nani  next  morning  said  there  were  only  six  thousand ! 
After  the  charging  was  over,  the  reviewing  party  rode 
to  the  centre  of  the  field,  and  the  troops  galloped  round 
them  ;  and  the  Emperor  distributed  decorations.  We 
could  recognize  the  Emperor  and  Empress ;  Prince 
Albert  in  huzzar  uniform,  with  a  green  plume  in  his  cap  ; 
and  the  Prince  Imperial,  in  cap  and  the  uniform  of  a 
lieutenant,  —  on  horseback  in  front ;  while  the  Princess 
occupied  a  carriage  behind  them. 

There  was  a  crush  of  people  at  the  entrance  to  see 
the  royals  make  their  exit.  Gendarmes  were  busy,  and 
mounted  guards  went  smashing  through  the  crowd  to 
clear  a  space.  Everybody  was  on  the  tiptoe  of  expec- 
tation. There  is  a  portion  of  the  Emperor's  guard; 
there  is  an  ofHcer  of  the  household;  there  is  an  embla- 
zoned carriage ;  and,  quick,  there  !  with  a  rush  they 
come,  driving  as  if  there  was  no  crowd,  with  imperial 
haste,  postilions  and  outriders  and  the  imperial  carriage. 
There  is  a  sensation,  a  cordial  and  not  loud  greeting, 
but  no  Yankee-like  cheers.  That  heavy  gentleman  in 
citizen's  dress,  who  looks  neither  to  right  nor  left,  is  Na- 
poleon III. ;  that  handsome  woman,  grown  full  in  the 
lace  of  late,  but  yet  with  the  bloom  of  beauty  and  the 
sweet  grace  of  command,  in  hat  and  dark  riding-habit, 
bowing  constantly  to  right  and  left,  and  smiling,  is  the 
Empress  Eugenie.  And  they  are  gone.  As  we  look  for 
something  more,  there  is  a  rout  in  the  side  avenue ;  some- 
thing is  coming,  unexpected,  from  another  quarter:  dra- 
goons dash  through  the  dense  mass,  shouting  and  ges- 
ticulating, and  a  dozen  horses  go  by,  turning  the  corner 
like  a  small  whirlwind,  urged  on  by  whip  and  spur,  a 


AN  IMn-.RIA I.  AV-; /  Y£  IV.  1 7 

handsome  boy  riding  in  the  midst,  —  :i  hoy  in  cap  and 
simple  Ultiform,  riding  gracefuilyand  easily  and  jauntily, 
and  out  of  Mght  in  a  minute.  It  is  the  hoy  Prince  Im- 
perial and  his  guard,  it  was  like  him  to  dash  in  unex- 
pectedly, as  he  has  hroken  into  the  line  of  European 
princes,  lie  rides  gallantly,  and  Fortune  smiles  on  him 
to-day;  but  he  rides  into  a  troubled  future.  Then1  was 
one  more  >how.  —  a  carriage  of  the  Emperor,  with  offi- 
cers, in  Knidish  colors  and  side-whiskers,  riding  in  ad- 
vance and  behind:  in  it  the  future  King  of  England, 
the  heavy,  selfish-faced  young  man,  and  beside  him  his 
princess,  popular  wherever  she  shows  her  winning  face, 
—  a  fair,  sweet  woman,  in  light  and  flowing  silken  stuffs 
of  spring,  a  vision  of  lovely  youth  and  rank,  also  gone  in 
a  minute. 

These  English  visitors  are  enjoying  the  pleasures  of 
the  French  capital.  On  Sunday,  as  I  passed  the  Hotel 
liristol,  a  crowd,  principally  English,  was  waiting  in 
front  of  it  to  see  the  Prince  and  Princess  come  out,  and 
enter  one  of  the  Emperor's  carriages  in  waiting.  I  heard 
an  Englishwoman,  who  was  looking  on  with  admiration 
tk  sticking  out"  all  over,  remark  to  a  friend  in  a  very 
loud  whisper,  <;I  tell  you,  the  Prince  lives  every  day  of 
his  life."  The  princely  pair  came  out  at  length,  and 
drove  away,  going  to  visit  Versailles.  I  don't  know 
what  the  Queen  would  think  of  this  way  of  spending 
Sunday;  but,  if  Albert  Edward  never  does  any  thing 
•worse,  he  doesn't  need  half  the  praying  for  that  he  gets 
every  Sunday  in  all  the  English  churches  and  chapels. 

2* 


THE  LOW  COUNTRIES  AND 
RHINELAND. 


AMIENS   AND  QUAINT  OLD   BRUGES. 

rpHEY  have  not  yet  found  out  the  secret  in  France 
I  of  banishing  (lust  from  railway-carriages.  Paris, 
late  in  June,  was  hot,  but  not  dusty  :  the  country  was 
both.  There  is  an  uninteresting  glare  and  hardness  in 
a  French  landscape  on  a  sunny  day.  The  soil  is  thin, 
the  trees  are  slender,  and  one  sees  not  much  luxury  or 
comfort.  Still,  one  does  not  usually  see  much  of  either 
on  a  flying  train.  We  spent  a  night  at  Amiens,  and 
had  several  hours  for  the  old  cathedral,  the  sunset  light 
on  its  noble  front  and  towers  and  spire  and  flying  but- 
tresses, and  the  morning  rays  bathing  its  rich  stone.  As 
one  stands  near  it  in  front,  it  seems  to  tower  away  into 
heaven,  a  mass  of  carving  and  sculpture,  —  figures  of 
saints  and  martyrs  who  have  stood  in  the  sun  and  storm 
for  ages,  as  they  stood  in  their  lifetime,  with  a  patient 
waiting.  It  was  like  a  great  company,  a  Christian  host, 
in  attitudes  of  praise  and  worship.  There  they  were, 
ranks  on  ranks,  silent  in  stone,  when  the  last  of  the 
long  twilight  illumined  them  ;  and  there  in  the  same 
impressive  patience  they  waited  the  golden  day.  It 
required  little  fancy  to  feel  that  they  had  lived,  and  now 
in  long  procession  came  down  the  ages.  The  central 
portal  is  lofty,  wide,  and  crowded  with  figures.  The  side 
is  only  less  rich  than  the  front.  Here  the  old  Gothic  build- 
ers let  their  fancy  riot  in  grotesque  gargoyles,  —  figures 
of  animals,  and  imps  of  sin,  which  stretch  out  their  long 
necks  for  water-spouts  above.  From  the  ground  to  the 
top  of  the  unfinished  towers  is  one  mass  of  rich  stone 

21 


22       AMIENS  AND  QUAINT  OLD  BRUGES. 

work,  the  creation  of  genius  that  hundreds  of  years  ago 
knew  no  other  way  to  write  its  poems  than  with  the 
chisel.  The  interior  is  very  magnificent  also,  and  has 
some  splendid  stained  glass.  At  eight  o'clock,  the 
priests  were  chanting  vespers  to  a  larger  congregation 
than  many  churches  have  on  Sunday :  their  voices 
were  rich  and  musical,  and,  joined  with  the  organ  notes, 
floated  sweetly  and  impressively  through  the  dim  and 
vast  interior.  We  sat  near  the  great  portal,  and,  look- 
ing down  the  long,  arched  nave  and  choir  to  the  cluster 
of  candies  burning  on  the  high  altar,  before  which  the 
priests  chanted,  one  could  not  but  remember  how  many 
centuries  the  same  act  of  worship  had  been  almost  un- 
interrupted within,  while  the  apostles  and  maityrs  stood 
without,  keeping  watch  of  the  unchanging  heavens. 

When  I  stepped  in,  early  in  the  morning,  the  first 
mass  was  in  progress.  The  church  was  nearly  empty. 
Looking  within  the  choir,  I  saw  two  stout  young  priests 
lustily  singing  the  prayers  in  deep,  rich  voices.  One 
of  them  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and  sang  away,  as  if  he 
had  taken  a  contract  to  do  it,  using,  from  time  to  time, 
an  enormous  red  handkerchief,  with  which  and  his  nose 
he  produced  a  trumpet  obligato.  As  I  stood  there,  a 
poor  dwarf  hobbled  in  and  knelt  on  the  bare  stones,  and 
was  the  only  worshipper,  until,  at  length,  a  half-dozen 
priests  swept  in  from  the  sacristy,  and  two  processions 
of  young  school-girls  entered  from  either  side.  They 
have  the  skull  of  John  the  Baptist  in  this  cathedral.  I 
did  not  see  it,  although  I  suppose  I  could  have  done  so 
for  a  franc  to  the  beadle  :  but  I  saw  a  very  good  stone 
imitation  of  it ;  and  his  image  and  story  fill  the  church. 
It  is  something  to  have  seen  the  place  that  contains  his 
skull, 

The  country  becomes  more  interesting  as  one  gets 
into  Belgium.  Windmills  are  frequent :  in  and  near 
Lille  are  some  six  hundred  of  them ;  and  they  are  a 
great  help  to  a  landscape  that  wants  fine  trees.  At 
Courtrai,  we  looked  into  Notre  Dame,  a  thirteenth-cen- 


AMIENS  AND  QUAINT  OLD  BRUGES.        23 

turv  cathedral,  which  has  a  Vandyke  (••  Tin-  Raiding  of 
tin-  C'n.ss"),  and  the  chapel  of  (he  Counts  of  Flanders, 
where  workmen  were  nnco\  erin  j;  sonic  frescos  that  were 
whitewashed  over  in  tin-  war-t imcs.  The  town  hall  has 
two  line  old  chimney-piecoa  carved  in  wood,  with  (jnaint 
figures, —  woi-k  that  one  must,  go  to  the;  Netherlands 
Toward  evening  we  came  into  the  ancient  town 
of  Unices.  The  country  all  day  has  been  nu»tly  Hat, 
Imt  thoroughly  cultivated.  Windmills  appear  to  do  all 
the  labor  of  the  people,  —  raising  the  water,  grinding  the 
grain,  sawing  the  lumber  ;  and  they  everywhere  lilt  their 
lon'j;  arms  up  to  the  sky.  Things  look  more  and  more 
what  we  call  "  foreign."  Harvest,  18  going  on,  of  hay  and 
grain;  and  men  and  women  work  together  in  the  fields. 
The.  gentle  sex  has  its  rights  here.  We  saw  sever;,! 
women  acting  as  switch-tenders.  Perhaps  the  use  of  the 
switch  comes  natural  to  them.  Justiee,  however,  is  still 
in  the  hands  of  the  men.  We  saw  a  Dutch  eourt  in 
session  in  a  little  room  in  the  town  hall  at  Conrtrai. 
The  justice  wore  a  little  red  cap,  ami  sat  informally  be- 
hind a  cheap  table.  I  noticed  that  the  witnesses  were 
treated  with  unusual  consideration,  being  allowed  to  sit 
down  at  the  table  opposite  the  little  justice,  who  inter- 
rogated them  in  a  loud  voice.  At  the  stations  to-day 
e  more  friars  in  coarse,  wroollen  dresses,  and  sandals, 
and  the  peasants  with  wooden  sabots. 

As  the,  sun  <_roes  to  the  horizon,  we  have  an  effect 
sometimes  produced  by  the  best  Dutch  artists,  —  a  won- 
derful transparent  li^ht,  in  which  the  landscape  looks 
like  a  picture,  with  its  church-spires  of  stone,  its  wind- 
mills, its  slender  trees,  and  red-roofed  houses.  It  is  a  good 
li-ht  and  a  good  hour  in  which  to  enter  Bruges,  that 
city  of  the  past.  Once  the  city  was  greater  than  Ant- 
werp; and  up  the  liege  came  the  commerce  of  the  East, — • 
men-bants  from  the  Levant,  traders  in  jewels  and  silks. 
Now  the  tall  houses  wait  for  tenants,  and  the  streets 
have  a  de.-erted  air.  After  nightfall,  as  we  walked  in 
ihc  middle  of  the  roughly-paved  streets,  meeting  few 


24       AMIENS  AND  QUAINT  OLD  BRUGES. 

people,  and  hearing  only  the  echoing  clatter  of  the 
wooden  sabots  of  the  few  who  were  abroad,  the  old 
spirit  of  the  place  came  over  us.  We  sat  on  a  bench 
in  the  market-place,  a  treeless  square,  hemmed  in 
by  quaint,  gabled  houses,  late  in  the  evening,  to  listen  to 
the  chimes  from  the  belfry.  The  tower  is  less  than  lour 
hundred  feet  high,  and  not  so  high  by  some  seventy  feet 
as  the  one  on  Notre  Dame  near  by  ;  but  it  is  very  pic- 
turesque, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  springs  out  of  a 
rummagy-looking  edifice,  one-half  of  which  is  devoted 
to  soldiers'  barracks,  and  the  other  to  markets.  The 
chimes  are  called  the  finest  in  Europe.  It  is  well  to 
hear  the  finest  at  once,  and  so  have  done  with  the  tedious 
things.  The  Belgians  are  as  fond  of  chimes  as  the  Dutch 
are  of  stagnant  water.  We  heard  them  everywhere  in 
Belgium  ;  and  in  some  towns  they  are  incessant,  jangling 
every  seven  and  a  half  minutes.  The  chimes  at  Bruges 
ring  every  quarter-hour  for  a  minute,  and  at  the  lull 
hour  attempt  a  tune.  The  revolving  machinery  grinds 
out  the  tune,  which. is  changed  at  least  once  a  year ; 
and  on  Sundays  a  musician,  chosen  by  the  town,  plays 
the  chimes.  In  so  many  bells  (there  are  forty-eight), 
the  least  of  which  weighs  twelve  pounds,  and  the  largest 
over  eleven  thousand,  there  must  be  soft  notes  and  son- 
orous tones ;  so  sweet  jangled  sounds  were  showered 
down :  but  we  liked  better  than  the  confused  chiming 
the  solemn  notes  of  the  great  bell  striking  the  hour. 
There  is  something  very  poetical  about  this  chime  of 
bells  high  in  the  air,  flinging  down  upon  the  hum  and 
traffic  of  the  city  its  oft-repeated  benediction  of  peace  ; 
but  anybody  but  a  Lowlander  would  get  very  weary 
of  it.  These  chimes,  to  be  sure,  are  better  than  those 
in  London,  which  became  a  nuisance  ;  but  there  is  in  all 
of  them  a  tinkling  attempt  at  a  tune,  which  always  fails, 
that  is  very  annoying. 

Bruges  has  altogether  an  odd  flavor.     Piles  of  wooden 
sabots  are  for  sale  in  front  of  the  shops;  and  this  ugly 
which  is  mysteriously  kept  on  the  foot,  is  worn  by 


AMIENS  AND  QUAINT  OLD  BRUGES.       2$ 

all  tin-  common  sort.  AVc  see  loir:,  slender  carts  in  tlio 
.  with  oiu'  horse  hitched  far  ahead  with  rope  traces, 
and  no  tliiiis  or  pole.  The  women  —  nearly  every  i.nc  we 
saw —  wear  long  cloaks  of  black  clolh  wiih  a  silk  hood 
thrown  back,  Bruges  is  lamous  of  old  lor  its  beautiful 
women,  v>  ho  arc  enticingly  described  as  alwa\s  walking 
the  streets  wiih  covered  (aces,  and  peeping  out,  in  iu 
their  mantles.  'J'hcy  are  not  so  handsome  now  they 
show  their  1'aees.  I  can  testify.  Indeed,  if  there  is  in 
Bruges  another  besides  the  beautiful  girl  who  showed 
us  the  old  Council-chamber  in  the  Palace  of  Justice,  >he 
must  have  had  her  hood  pulled  over  her  face. 

Next  morning  was  market-day.  The  square  was 
lively  with  carts,  donkeys,  and  country  people,  and  that 
and  all  the  streets  leading  to  it  were  idled  with  the 
women  in  black  cloaks,  who  Hit  ted  about  as  numerous 
as  the  rooks  at  Oxford,  and  very  much  like  them,  mov- 
ing in  a  winded  way,  their  cloaks  outspread  as  they 
walked,  and  distended  with  the  market-basket  under- 
neath. Though  the  streets  were  full,  the  town  did  not 
seem  any  less  deserted  ;  and  the  early  marketers  had 
only  come  to  life  for  a  day,  revisiting  the  places  that  once 
they  thronged.  In  the  shade  of  the  tall  houses  in  the 
narrow  streets,  sat  red-cheeked  girls  and  women  making 
lace,  the  bobbins  jumping  under  their  nimble  fingers. 
At  the  church-doors  hideous  beggars  crouched  and 
whined,  —  specimens  of  the  fii'teen  thousand  paupers  of 
Bruges.  Ju  the  fish-market  we  saw  odd  old  women,  with 
Rembrandt  colors  in  faces  and  costume  ;  and,  while  we 
strayed  about  in  the  strange  city,  all  the  time  from 
die  lofty  tower  the  chimes  fell  down.  What  history 
crowds  upon  us  !  Here  in  the  old  cathedral,  with  its 
monstrous  tower  of  brick,  a  portion  of  it  as  old  as  the 
tenth  century.  Philip  the  Good  establi.-hed,  in  1429,  the 
Order  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  the  last  chapter  of  which 
was  held  by  Philip  the  Bad.  in  1559,  in  the  rich  old 
Cathedral  of  St.  Bavon,  at  Ghent.  Here,  on  the  square, 
ib  the  site  of  the  hou.-e  where  the  Emperor  Maximilian 
3 


26       AMIENS  AND  QUAINT  OLD  BRUGES. 

was  imprisoned  by  his  rebellious  Flemings  ;  and  next  it, 
with  a  carved  lion,  that  in  which  Charles  II.  of  England 
lived  after  the  martyrdom  of  that  patient  and  virtuous 
ruler,  whom  the  English  Prayer-book  calls  that "  blessed 
martyr,  Charles  the  First."  In  Notre  Dame  are  the 
tombs  of  Charles  the  Bold  and  Mary  his  daughter. 

We  begin  here  to  enter  the  portals  of  Dutch  painting. 
Here  died  Jan  van  Eyck,  the  father  of  oil  painting  ;  and 
here,  in  the  hospital  of  St.  John,  are  the  most  celebrated 
pictures  of  Hans  Mem  ling.  The  most  exquisite  in  color 
and  finish  is  the  series  painted  on  the  casket  made  to 
contain  the  arm  of  St.  .Ursula,  and  representing  the 
story  of  her  martyrdom.  You  know  she  went  on  a  pil 
grimage  to  Home,  with  her  lover,  Conan,  and  eleven 
thousand  virgins ;  and,  on  their  return  to  Cologne,  they 
were  all  massacred  by  the  Huns.  One  would  scarcely 
believe  the  story,  if  he  did  not  see  all  their  bones  at 
Cologne. 


GHENT  AND   ANTWERP. 

"\T  THAT  can  one  do  in  this  Belgium  hut  write  down 
Y\  names,  and  let  memory  recall  the  past?  We 
came  to  Ghent,  still  a  handsome  city,  though  one  thinka 
oi'tlu1  days  whrii  it  was  the  capital  of  Flanders,  and  its 
merchants  were  princes.  On  the  shabby  old  belfry- 
lower  is  the  gilt  dragon  which  Philip  van  Artevclde 
captured,  and  brought  in  triumph  from  Bruges.  It  was 
originally  fetched  from  a  Greek  church  in  Constantino- 
ple by  some  Bruges  Crusader;  and  it  is  a  link  to  recall 
to  us  how,  at  that  time,  the  merchants  of  Venice  and  the 
far  East  traded  up  the  Schelde,  and  brought  to  its 
wharves  the  rich  stuffs  of  India  and  Persia.  The  old 
bull  Roland,  that  was  used  to  call  the  burghers  together 
on  the  approach  of  an  enemy,  hung  in  this  tower.  What 
fierce  broils  and  bloody  tights  did  these  streets  witness 
centuries  ago  !  There  in  the  Marche  an  Vendredi,  a 
large  square  of  old-fashioned  houses,  with  a  statue  of 
Jacques  van  Artevelde,  fifteen  hundred  corpses  were 
strewn  in  a  quarrel  between  the  hostile  guilds  of  fullers 
and  brewers;  and  here,  later,  Alva  set  blazing  the  fires 
of  the  Inquisition.  Near  the  square  is  the  old  cannon, 
Mad  Margery,  used  in  1382  at  the  siege  of  Oudenarde, — 
a  hammered-iron  hooped  affair,  eighteen  feet  long.  But 
why  mention  this,  or  the  magnificent  town  hall,  or  St. 
Bavon,  rich  in  pictures  and  statuary;  or  try  to  put  you 
back  three  hundred  years  to  the  wild  days  when  the 
iconoclasts  sacked  this  and  every  other  church  in  the 
Low  Countries  V 

27 


28  GHENT  AND  ANTWERP. 

Up  to  Antwerp  toward  evening.  All  the  country  flat 
as  the  flattest  part  of  Jersey,  rich  in  grass  and  grain,  cut 
up  by  canals,  picturesque  with  windmills  and  red-tiled 
roofs,  framed  with  trees  in  rows.  It  has  been  all  day  hot 
and  dusty.  The  country  everywhere  seems  to  need  rain ; 
and  dark  clouds  are  gathering  in  the  south  for  a  storm,  as 
we  drive  up  the  broad  Place  de  Meir  to  our  hotel,  and 
take  rooms  that  look  out  to  the  lace-like  spire  of  the  cathe- 
dra^ which  is  sharply  defined  against  the  red  western  sky. 

Antwerp  takes  hold  of  you,  both  by  its  present  and  its 
past,  very  strongly.  It  is  still  the  home  of  wealth.  It 
has  stately  buildings,  splendid  galleries  of  pictures,  and 
a  spire  of  stone  which  charms  more  than  a  picture,  and 
fascinates  the  eye  as  music  does  the  ear.  It  still  keeps 
its  strong  fortifications  drawn  around  it,  to  which  the 
broad  and  deep  Scheldt  is  like  a  string  to  a  bow,  mind- 
ful of  the  unstable  state  of  Europe.  While  Berlin  is 
only  a  vast  camp  of  soldiers,  every  less  city  must  daily 
beat  its  drums,  and  call  its  muster-roll.  From  the  tower 
here  one  looks  upon  the  cockpit  of  Europe.  And  yet 
Antwerp  ought  to  have  rest :  she  has  had  tumult  enough 
in  her  time.  Prosperity  seems  returning  to  her ;  but  her 
old,  comparative  splendor  can  never  come  back.  In  the 
sixteenth  century  there  was  no  richer  city  in  Europe. 

We  walked  one  evening  past  the  cathedral  spire, 
which  begins  in  the  richest  and  most  solid  Gothic  work, 
and  grows  up  into  the  sky  into  an  exquisite  lightness  and 
grace,  down  a  broad  street  to  the  Scheldt.  What  traffic 
have  not  these  high  old  houses  looked  on,  when  two 
thousand  and  five  hundred  vessels  lay  in  the  river  at  one 
time,  and  the  commerce  of  Europe  found  here  its  best 
mart.  Along  the  stream  now  is  a  not  very  clean  prome- 
nade for  the  populace ;  and  it  is  lined  with  beer-houses, 
shabby  theatres,  and  places  of  the  most  childish  amuse- 
ments. There  is  an  odd  liking  for  the  simple  among 
these  people.  In  front  of  the  booths,  drums  were  beaten 
and  instruments  played  in  bewildering  discord.  Actors 
ill  paint  and  tights  stood  without  to  attract  the  crowd 


GHENT  AND  ANTWERP.  29 

within.  On  one  low  balcony,  a  copper-colored  man, 
with  a  huge  feather  cap  and  the  traditional  dress  of  the 
American  savage,  was  heating  two  drums;  a  burnt-cork 

black  man  stood  beside  him ;  while  on  the  steps  was  a 

woman,  in  hat  and  shawl,  making  an  earnest  speech  to 
the  crowd.  In  another  place,  where  a  cra/y  hand  made 
furious  music-,  was  an  enormous  " go-round"  of  wooden 
ponies,  like  those  in  the  Paris  gardens,  only  here,  in- 
stead of' children,  grown  men  and  women  rode  the  hobby- 
horses, and  seemed  delighted  with  the  sport.  In  the  gen- 
eral Uahel.  everybody  was  good-natured  and  jolly.  Little 
things  sntlice  to  amuse  the  lower  classes,  who  do  not  have 
to  bother  their  heads  with  elections  and  mass  meetings. 
In  front  of  the  cathedral  is  the  well,  and  the  fine  can- 
opy of  iron  work,  by  Quentin  Matsys,  the  blacksmith  of 
Antwerp,  some  of  "whose  pictures  we  saw  in  the  Museum, 
where  one  sees  also  some  of  the  finest  pictures  of  the 
Dutch  school,  —  the  "  Crucifixion  "of  Rubens,  the  "  Christ 
on  the  Cross  "  of  Vandyke  ;  paintings  also  by  Teniers, 
Otto  Vennius.  Albert  Cuyp,  and  others,  and  Rembrandt's 
portrait  of  his  wife,  —  a  picture  whose  sweet  strength  and 
wealth  of  color  draws  one  to  it  with  almost  a  passion  of 
admiration.  We  had  already  seen  "  The  Descent  from  the 
Cross  "  and  "  The  Raising  of  the  Cross"  by  Rubens,  in  the 
cathedral.  With  all  his  power  and  rioting  luxuriance 
of  color,  I  cannot  come  to  love  him  as  I  do  Rembrandt. 
Doubtless  he  painted  what  he  saw ;  and  we  still  find  the 
types  of  his  female  figures  in  the  broad-hipped,  ruddy- 
colored  women  of  Antwerp.  We  walked  down  to  his 
house,  which  remains  much  as  it  was  two  hundred  and 
twenty-five  years  ago.  From  the  interior  court,  an 
entrance  in  the  Italian  style  leads  into  a  pleasant  little 
garden  full  of  old  trees  and  flowers,  with  a  summer-house 
embellished  with  plaster  casts,  and  having  the  very 
stone  table  upon  which  Rubens  painted.  It  is  a  quiet 
place,  and  fit  for  an  artist ;  but  Rubens  had  other  houses 
in  the  city,  and  lived  the  life  of  a  man  who  took  a  strong 
hold  of  the  world. 


AMSTERDAM. 


E  rail  from  Antwerp  north  was  through  a  land 
JL  flat  and  sterile.  After  a  little,  it  becomes  a  little 
richer  ;  but  a  forlorner  laud  to  live  in  J  never  saw.  One 
wonders  at  the  perseverance  of  the  Flemings  and  Dutch- 
men to  keep  all  this  vast  tract  above  water,  when  there 
is  so  much  good  solid  earth  elsewhere  unoccupied.  At 
Moerdjik  we  changed  from  the  cars  to  a  little  steamer 
on  the  Maas,  which  flows  between  high  banks.  The  wa- 
ter is  higher  than  the  adjoining  land,  and  from  the  deck 
we  look  down  upon  houses  and  farms.  At  Dort,  the 
Rhine  comes  in  with  little  promise  of  the  noble  stream 
it  is  in  the  highlands.  Everywhere  canals  and  ditches 
dividing  the  small  fields  instead  offences;  trees  planted 
in  straight  lices,  and  occasionally  trained  on  a  trellis  in 
front  of  the  houses,  with  the  trunk  painted  white  or 
green  ;  so  that  every  likeness  of  nature  shall  be  taken 
away.  From  Rotterdam,  by  cars,  it  is  still  the  same. 
The  Dutchman  spends  half  his  life,  apparently,  in  fight- 
ing the  water.  He  has  to  watch  the  huge  dykes  which 
keep  the  ocean  from  overwhelming  him,  and  the  river- 
banks,  which  may  break,  and  let  the  floods  of  the  Rhine 
swallow  him  up.  The  danger  from  within  is  not  less 
than  from  without.  Yet  so  fond  is  he  of  his  one  enemy, 
that,  when  he  can  afford  it,  he  builds  him  a  fantastic 
summer-house  over  a  stagnant  pool  or  a  slimy  canal,  in 
one  corner  of  his  garden,  and  there  sits  to  enjoy  the 
aquatic  beauties  of  nature;  ;  that  is,  nature  as  he  hag 
made  it.  The  river-banks  are  woven  with  osiers  to  keep 
30 


AMSTERDAM.  31 

them  from  washing;  nnd  at  intervals  on  the  l)anks  aro 
piles  of  the  IOHLT  willies  to  be  used  in  emergencies  when 
Uu1  swollen  >treams  threaten  to  break  through. 

And  so  we  (Mime  to  Amsterdam,  the  oddest  city  of  all, 
—  a  citv  wholly  built  on  piles,  with  as  many  canals  as 
streets,  anil  an  architecture  so  quaint  «'»s  to  even  impress 
one  who  lias  come  1'roin  Belgium.  The  whole  town 
ha<  a  wharf-y  look  ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  say  why  the  tall 
hriek  houses,  their  Cables  running  by  steps  to  a  peak, 
and  eaeh  one  leaning  lorward  or  backward  or  sideways, 
and  n<>ne  perpendicular,  and  no  two  on  a  line,  are  so 
interesting.  But  certainly  it  is  a  most  entertaining 
place  to  the  stranger,  whether  he  explores  the  crowded 
Jews'  quarter,  with  its  swarms  of  dirty  people,  its  nar- 
row streets,  and  high  houses  hung  with  clothes,  as  if 
every  day  were  washing-day;  or  strolls  through  tho 
equally  narrow  streets  of  rich  shops;  or  lounges  upon 
the  bridges,  and  looks  at  the  queer  boats  with  clumsy 
rounded  bows,  great  helms,  painted  in  gay  colors,  with 
flowers  in  the  cabin-windows,  —  boats  where  families  live  ; 
or  walks  down  the  Plantage,  with  the  zoological  gardens 
on  the  one  hand  and  rows  of  beer-gardens  on  the  other ; 
or  round  the  great  docks  ;  or  saunters  at  sunset  by  the 
banks  of  the  Y,  and  looks  upon  flat  North  Holland 
and  the  Zuyder  Zee. 

The  palace  on  the  Dam  (square)  is  a  square,  stately 
edifice,  and  the  only  building  that  the  stranger  will  care 
to  see.  Its  interior  is  richer  and  more  fit  to  live  in  than 
any  palace  we  have  seen.  There  is  nothing  usually  so 
dreary  as  your  fine  palace.  There  are  some  good  fres- 
cos, rooms  richly  decorated  in  marble,  and  a  magnifi- 
cent hall,  or  ball-room,  one  hundred  feet  in  height,  with- 
out pillars.  Back  of  it  is,  of  course,  a  canal,  which  does 
not  smell  fragrantly  in  the  summer;  and  I  do  not  won- 
der that  William  III.  and  his  queen  prefer  to  stop  away. 
From  the  top  is  a  splendid  view  of  Amsterdam  and  all 
the  flat  region.  I  speak  of  it  with  entire  impartiality, 
lor  1  did  not  go  up  to  see  it.  But  better  than  palaces  are 


32  AMSTERDAM. 

the  picture-galleries,  three  of  which  are  open  to  the 
sight-seer.  Here  the  ancient  and  modern  Dutch  paint- 
ers are  seen  at  their  best,  and  I  know  of  no  richer  feast 
of  this  sort.  Here  Rembrandt  is  to  be  seen  in  his  glory  ; 
here  Van  der  Heist,  Jan  Steen,  Gerard  Douw ;  Teniers 
the  younger,  Hondekoeter,  Weenix,  Ostade,  Cuyp,  and 
other  names  as  familiar.  These  men  also  painted  what 
they  saw,  —  the  people,  the  landscapes,  with  which  they 
were  familiar.  It  was  a  strange  pleasure  to  meet  again 
and  again  in  the  streets  of  the  town  the  faces,  or  types 
of  them,  that  we  had  just  seen  on  canvas  so  old. 

In  the  Low  Countries,  the  porters  have  the  grand  title 
of  commissionaires.  They  carry  trunks  and  bundles, 
black  boots,  and  act  as  valets  de  place.  As  guides,  they 
are  quite  as  intolerable  in  Amsterdam  as  their  brethren 
in  other  cities.  Many  of  them  are  Jews ;  and  they  have 
a  keen  eye  for  a  stranger.  The  moment  he  sallies  from 
his  hotel,  there  is  a  guide.  Let  him  hesitate  for  an 
instant  in  his  walk,  either  to  look  at  something  or  to 
consult  his  map,  or  let  him  ask  the  way,  and  he  will 
have  a  half-dozen  of  the  persistent  guild  upon  him ;  and 
they  cannot  easily  be  shaken  off.  The  afternoon  we 
arrived,  we  had  barely  got  into  our  rooms  at  Brack's 
Oude  Doelan,  when  a  gray-headed  commissionaire 
knocked  at  our  door,  and  offered  his  services  to  show  us 
the  city.  We  deferred  the  pleasure  of  his  valuable  so- 
r  iety.  Shortly,  when  we  came  down  to  the  street,  a 
i  smartly-dressed  Israelite  took  off  his  hat  to  us,  and 
offered  to  show  us  the  city.  We  declined  with  impres- 
sive politeness,  and  walked  on.  The  Jew  accompanied 
us,  and  attempted  conversation,  in  which  we  did  not 
join.  He  would  show  us  every  thing  for  a  guilder  an 
hour,  —  for  half  a  guilder.  Having  plainly  told  the  Jew 
that  we  did  not  desire  his  attendance,  he  crossed  to  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  and  kept  us  in  sight,  biding  hig 
opportunity.  At  the  end  of  the  street,  we  hesitated  a 
moment  whether  to  cross  the  bridge  or  turn  up  by  the 
broad  canal.  The  Jew  was  at  our  side  in  a  moment, 


AMSTERDAM.  33 

iiLT  divined  that  we  were  on  the  wav  to  the  Dam  an.J 

tin*  palace.     He  obligingly  pointed  the  way,  and  l>e-_ran 

to  walk  with  ;is,  enterin-j:  into  conversation.  We,  told 
liini  pointedly,  that,  we  did  not  desire  his  services,  and 
requested  him  lo  leave  us.  He  still  walked  in  our  direc- 
tion, witli  tlio  air  of  one  much  injured,  but  forgiving,  and 
was  more  than  once  heside  us  with  a  piece  of  informa- 
tion. When  we  finally  turned  upon  him  with  great 
fierceness,  and  told  him  to  begone,  he  regarded  us  with  a 
mournful  and  pitying  expression;  and  as  the  last  act  of 
one  who  returned  irood  tor  evil,  he-lore  he  turned  away, 
pointed  out  to  us  the  next  turn  we  were  to  make.  I  saw 
him  several  times  afterward  ;  and  I  once  had  occasion  to 
say  to  him,  that  I  had  already  told  him  I  would  not  em- 
ploy him;  and  he  always  lifted  his  hat,  and  looked  at  me 
with  a  forgiving  smile.  I  felt* that  I  had  deeply  wronged 
him.  As  we  stood  by  the  statue,  looking  up  at  the  east- 
ern pediment  of  the  palace,  another  of  the  tribe  (they 
all  speak  a  little  English)  asked  me  if  I  wished  to  see 
the  palace.  I  told  him  I  was  looking  at  it,  and  could 
see  it  quite  distinctly.  Half  a  dozen  more  crowded 
round,  and  proffered  their  aid.  Would  I  like  to  go  into 
the  palace  ?  They  knew,  and  I  knew,  that  they  could  do 
nothing  more  than  go  to  the  open  door,  through  which 
they  would  not  be  admitted,  and  that  I  could  walk  across 
the  open  square  to  that,  and  enter  alone.  I  asked  the 
first  speaker  if  he  wished  to  go  into  the  palace.  Oh, 
yes  !  he  would  like  to  go.  I  told  him  he  had  better  go  at 
once,  —  they  had  all  better  go  in  together  and  see  the 
palace,  —  it  was  an  excellent  opportunity.  They  seemed 
to  see  the  point,  and  slunk  away  to  the  other  side  to  wait 
for  another  stranger. 

I  find  that  this  plan  works  very  well  with  guides  : 
when  I  see  one  approaching,  I  at  once  offer  to  guid?. 
him.  It  is  an  idea  from  which  he  does  not  rally  in  time 
to  annoy  us.  The  other  day  I  offered  to  show  a  persist- 
ent fellow  through  an  old  ruin  for  fifty  kreuzers :  aa 
his  price  for  showing  me  was  forty-eight,  we  did  not 


34  AMSTERDAM. 

come  to  terms.  One  of  the  most  remarkable  guides,  by 
the  way,  we  encountered  at  Stratford-on-Avon.  As  we 
walked  down  from  the  Red  Horse  Inn  to  the  church,  a 
full-grown  boy  came  bearing  down  upon  us  in  the  most 
wonderful  fashion.  Early  rickets,  I  think,  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  the  St.  Vitus'  dance.  He  came  down  upon 
us  sideways,  his  legs  all  in  a  tangle,  and  his  right  arm, 
bent  and  twisted,  going  round  and  round,  as  if  in  vain 
efforts  to  get  into  his  pocket,  his  fingers  spread  out  in 
impotent  desire  to  clutch  something.  There  was  great 
danger  that  he  would  run  into  us,  as  he  was  like  a 
steamer  with  only  one  side-wheel  and  no  rudder.  He 
came  up  puffing  and  blowing,  and  offered  to  show  us 
Shakespeare's  tomb.  Shade  of  the  past,  to  be  accompa- 
nied to  thy  resting-place  by  such  an  object!  But  ho 
fastened  himself  on  us,  and  jerked  and  hitched  a^ng  in 
his  side-wheel  fashion.  We  declined  his  help.  He  pad- 
dled on,  twisting  himself  into  knots,  and  grinning  in  the 
most  friendly  manner.  We  told  him  to  begone.  "  I 
am,"  said  he,  wrenching  himself  into  a  new  contortion, 
"I  am  what  showed  Artemus  Ward  round  Stratford." 
This  information  he  repeated  again  and  again,  as  if  we 
could  not  resist  him  after  we  had  comprehended  that. 
We  shook  him  off;  but  when  we  returned  at  sundown 
across  the  fields,  from  a  visit  to  Anne  Hathaway's  cot- 
tage, we  met  the  side-wheeler  cheerfully  towing  along  a 
large  party,  upon  whom  he  had  fastened. 

The  people  of  Amsterdam  are  only  less  queer  than 
their  houses.  The  men  dress  in  a  solid,  old-fashioned 
way.  Every  one  wears  the  straight,  high-crowned  silk 
hat,  that  went  out  with  us  years  ago,  and  the  cut  of 
clothing  of  even  the  most  buckish  young  fellows  is 
behind  the  times.  I  stepped  into  the  Exchange,  an 
immense  interior,  that  will  hold  five  thousand  people, 
where  the  stock-gamblers  meet  twice  a  day.  It  was 
very  different  from  the  terrible  excitement  and  noise  of 
the  Paris  Bourse.  There  were  three  or  four  thousand 
brokers  there,  yet  there  was  very  little  noise  and  no  con-' 


AMSTERDAM.  35 

fusion.      No  slocks  were  called,  and  there  was  no  central 

riii-:  tor  bidding,  as  al  tin-  lloursc  \\\\\\  tin'.  New  Yoi'k 
(Jolil  Kooiu  ;  but  they  quietly  bought  and  sold.  Some  of 
the  leading  firms  had  desks  or  tables  at  the  side,  and 
there  awaited  orders.  Every  thing  was  phlegmatically 
and  decorously  done. 

In  the  streets  one  still  sees  peasant-women  in  native 
costume.  There  was  a  group  to-day  that  I  saw  by  the 
river,  evidently  just  crossed  over  from  North  Holland. 
They  wore  short  dresses,  with  the  upper  skirt  looped 
up,  and  had  broad  hips  and  big  waists.  On  the  head 
•was  a  cap  with  a  fall  of  lace  behind;  across  the  back 
of  the  head  a  broad  band  of  silver  (or  tin)  three  indies 
broad,  which  terminated  in  front  and  jnst  above  the  cars 
in  bright  pieces  of  metal  about  two  inches  square,  like  a 
li'M-.M-'s  blinders,  only  ilaring  more  from  the  head  ;  across 
the  forehead  and  just  above  the  eyes  a  gilt  band,  em- 
bossed;  on  the  temples  two  plaits  of  hair  in  circular 
eoils;  and  on  top  of  all  a  straw  hat,  like  an  old-fashioned 
bonnet,  stuck  on  hindside  before.  Spiral  coils  of  brass 
•wire,  coming  to  a  point  in  front,  are  also  worn  on  each 
side  of  the  head  by  many.  Whether  they  are  for  orna- 
ment or  defence,  I  could  not  determine. 

Water  is  brought  into  the  city  now  from  Haarlem,  and 
introduced  into  the  best  houses;  but  it  is  still  sold  in  the 
streets  by  old  men  and  women,  who  sit  at  the  faucets.  [ 
saw  one  dried-up  old  grandmother,  who  sat  in  her  little 
caboose,  fighting  away  the  crowd  of  dirty  children  who 
tried  to  steal  a  drink  when  her  back  was  turned,  keep- 
ing count  of  the  pails  of  water  carried  away  with  a  piece 
of  chalk  on  the  iron  pipe,  and  trying  to  darn  her  stock- 
ing at  the  same  time.  Odd  things  strike  you  at  every 
turn.  There  is  a  sledge  drawn  bv  one  poor  horse,  and 
on  the  front  of  it  is  a  cask  of  water  pierced  with  hole?, 
so  that  the  water  squirts  out  and  wets  the  stones,  making 
it  easier  sliding  for  the  runners.  It  is  an  ingenious 
people  1 

After  all,  we  drove  out  five  miles  to  Brock,  the  clean 


36  AMSTERDAM. 

village;  across  tlie  Y,  up  the  canal,  over  flatness  flat- 
tened. Brock  is  a  humbug,  as  almost  all  show  placed 
are.  A  wooden  little  village  on  a  stagnant  canal,  into 
which  carriages  do  not  dritc,  and  where  the  front-doors 
of  the  houses  are  never  open ;  a  dead,  uninteresting 
place,  neat  but  not  specially  pretty,  where  you  are 
shown  into  one  house  got  up  for  the  purpose,  which 
looks  inside  like  a  crockery  shop,  and  has  a  stiff  little 
garden  with  box  trained  in  shapes  of  animals  and  furni- 
ture. A  roomy-breeched  young  Dutchman,  whose  trou- 
sers went  up  to  his  neck,  and  his  hat  to  a  peak,  walked 
before  us  in  slow  and  cowlike  fashion,  and  showed  us 
the  place  ;  especially  some  horrid  pleasure-grounds,  with 
an  image  of  an  old  man  reading  in  a  summer-house,  and 
an  old  couple  in  a  cottage  who  sat  at  a  table  and 
worked,  or  ate,  I  forget  which,  by  clock-work ;  while  a 
dog  barked  by  the  same  means.  In  a  pond  was  a  wooden 
swan  sitting  on  a  stick,  the  water  having  receded,  and 
left  it  high  and  dry.  Yet  the  trip  is  worth  while  for  the 
view  of  the  country  and  the  people  on  the  way  :  men 
and  women  towing  boats  on  the  canals  ;  the  red-tiled 
houses  painted  green,  and  in  the  distance  the  villages, 
with  their  spires  and  pleasing  mixture  of  brown,  green, 
and  red  tints,  are  very  picturesque.  The  best  thing 
that  1  saw,  however,  was  a  traditional  Dutchman  walk- 
ing on  the  high  bank  of  a  canal,  with  soft  hat,  short  pipe, 
and  breeches  that  came  to  the  armpits  above,  and  a  little 
below  the  knees,  and  were  broad  enough  about  the  seat 
and  thighs  to  carry  his  no  doubt  numerous  family.  J  lo 
made  a  fine  figure  against  the  sky. 


COLOGNE   AND   ST.    URSULA. 

IT  is  a  relief  to  get  out  of  Holland  and  into  a  coun- 
try nearer  to  hills.  The  people  also  seem  more 
obliging.  In  Cologne,  a  brown-cheeked  girl  pointed  u* 
out  the  way  without  .waiting  for  a  kreu/er.  Perhap*  the 
women  have  more  to  busy  themselves  about  in  the  eities, 
and  are  not  so  curious  about  passers-by.  \Ve  rarely  see 
a  reflector  to  exhibit  us  to  the  occupants  of  the  serond- 
story  windows.  In  all  the  cities  of  Belgium  and  Holland 
the  ladies  have  small  mirrors,  with  relleetors,  fastened 
to  their  windows  ;  so  that  they  can  see  everybody  who 
•s,  without  putting  their  heads  out.  I  trust  we  are 
not  inverted  or  thrown  out  of  shape  when  we  are  thus 
caught  up  and  cast  into  my  lady's  chamber.  Cologne 
has  a  cheerful  look,  for  the  Rhine  here  is  wide  and  prom- 
ising ;  and  as  for  the  "  smells,"  they  are  certainly  not 
so  many  nor  so  vile  as  those  at  Mainz. 

Our  windows  at  the  hotel  looked  out  on  the  finest 
front  of  the  cathedral.  If  the  Devil  really  built  it,  he  is 
to  be  credited  with  one  good  thing,  and  it  is  now  likely 
to  be  finished,  in  spite  of  him.  Lanre  as  it  is,  it  is  on 
the  exterior  not  so  impressive  as  that  at  Amiens  ;  but 
within  it  has  a  magnificence  born  of  a  vast  design  an  1 
the  most  harmonious  proportions,  and  the  grand  elleet 
is  not  broken  by  any  subdivision  but  that  of  the  choir. 
Behind  the  altar  and  in  front  of  the,  chapel,  where  lie 
the  remains  of  the  Wise  Men  of  the  East  who  came  lo 
wor.-hip  the  Child,  or,  as  they  are  called,  the  Three  Kings 
oi  Cologne,  we  walked  over  a  stone  in  the  pavement 

37 


38  COLOGATE  AND  ST.  URSULA. 

under  which  is  the  heart  of  Mary  de  Medic-is :  the  re- 
mainder of  her  body  is  in  St.  Denis,  near  Paris.  The 
beadle  in  red  clothes,  who  stalks  about  the  cathedral 
like  a  converted  flamingo,  offered  to  open  for  us  the 
chapel ;  but  we  declined  a  sight  of  the  very  bones  of  the 
Wise  Men.  It  was  difficult  enough  to  believe  they  were 
there,  without  seeing  them.  One  ought  not  to  subject 
his  faith  to  too  great  a  strain  at  first  in  Europe.  The 
bones  of  the  Three  Kings,  by  the  way,  made  the  fortune 
of  the  cathedral.  They  were  the  greatest  religious  card 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  their  fortunate  possession 
brought  a  flood  of  wealth  to  this  old  Domkirche.  The 
old  feudal  lords  would  swear  by  the  Almijrhty  Father, 
or  the  Son,  or  Holy  Ghost,  or  by  every  thing  sacred  on 
earth,  and  break  their  oaths  as  they  would  break  a  wisp 
of  straw  :  but,  if  you  could  get  one  of  them  to  swear  by 
the  Three  Kings  of  Cologne,  he  was  fast ;  for  that  oath 
he  dare  not  disregard. 

The  prosperity  of  the  cathedral  on  these  valuable 
bones  set  all  the  other  churches  in  the  neighborhood  on 
the  same  track ;  and  one  can  study  right  here  in  this 
city  the  growth  of  relic  worship.  But  the  most  success- 
ful achievement  was  the  collection  of  the  bones  of  St. 
Ursula  and  the  eleven  thousand  virgins,  and  their  pres- 
ervation in  the  church  on  the  very  spot  where  they 
suffered  martyrdom.  There  is  probably  not  so  large  a 
collection  of  the  bones  of  virgins  elsewhere  in  the  world  , 
and  I  am  sorry  to  read  that  Professor  Owen  has  thought 
proper  to  see  and  say  that  many  of  them  are  the  bones 
of  lower  orders  of  animals.  They  are  built  into  the  walls 
of  the  church,  arranged  about  the  choir,  interred  in  stone 
coffins,  laid  under  the  pavements  ;  and  their  skulls  grin 
at  you  everywhere.  In  the  chapel  the  bones  are  taste- 
fully built  into  the  wall  and  overhead,  like  rustic  wood- 
work ;  and  the  skulls  stand  in  rows,  some  with  silver 
masks,  like  the  jars  on  the  shelves  of  an  apothecary's 
ghop.  It  is  a  cheerful  place.  On  the  little  altar  is  the 
very  skull  of  the  saint  herself,  and  that  of  Conan,  her 


COLOGNE  AND  ST.  URSULA.  39 

lover,  win-)  made  the  holy  pilgrimage  to  Rome,  with 
her  and  her  virgins,  and  also  was  slain  by  the  I  Inns  at 
r.'lon-ne.  There  is  a  picture  of  the  eleven  thousand  dis- 
embarking from  one  boat  on  the  llhine,  which  is  as 
Wonderful  as  the  trooping  of  hundreds  of  spirits  out  of  a 
conjurer's  bottle.  The  right,  arm  of  St.  Ursula  is  pre- 
serve* 1  here  :  the  left  is  at  Unices.  I  am  gradually  get- 
ting the  hang  of  this  excellent  but  somewhat  scattered 
woiiiau,  and  bringing  her  together  in  my  mind.  Her 
body.  I  believe,  liesbehind  the  altar  in  this  same,  church. 
She  must  have  been  a  lovely  character,  if  Hans  Memling's 
portrait  of  her  is  a  faithful  one.  I  was  glad  to  see  here 
one  of  the  jars  from  the  marriage-sapper  in  Cana.  We 
can  identify  it  by  a  piece  which  is  broken  out ;  and  the 
piece  is  in  Notre  Dame  in  Paris.  It  has  been  in  this 
church  five  hundred  years.  The  sacristan,  a  very  intel- 
ligent person,  with  a  shaven  crown  and  his  hair  cut 
straight  across  his  forehead,  who  showed  us  the  church, 
gave  us  much  useful  information  about  bones,  teeth,  and 
the  remains  of  the  garments  that  the  virgins  wore ;  and 
I  could  not  tell  from  his  face  how  much  he  expected  us 
to  believe.  I  asked  the  little  fussy  old  guide  of  an 
English  party  who  had  joined  us,  how  much  he  believed 
of  the  story.  lie  was  a  Protestant,  and  replied,  still 
anxious  to  keep  up  the  credit  of  his  city,  "  Tousands 
is  too  many;  some  hundreds  maybe;  tousands  is  too 
manv." 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  RHINE. 


"U  have  seen  the  Rhine  in  pictures;  you  have 
JL  read  its  legends.  You  know,  in  imagination  at 
least,  how  it  winds  among  craggy  hills  of  splendid  form, 
turning  so  abruptly  as  to  leave  you  often  shut  in  with  no 
visible  outlet  from  the  wall  of  rock  and  forest;  how  the 
castles,  some  in  ruins  so  as  to  be  as  unsightly  as  any  old 
pile  of  rubbish,  others  with  feudal  towers  and  battle- 
ments, still  perfect,  hanging  on  the  crags,  or  standing 
sharp  against  the  sky,  or  nestling  by  the  stream,  or  on 
some  lonely  island.  You  know  that  the  Rhine  has  been 
to  Germans  what  the  Nile  was  to  the  Egyptians,  —  a 
delight,  and  the  theme  of  song  and  story.  -Here  the 
Roman  eagles  were  planted ;  here  were  the  camps  of 
Drusus .  here  Cajsar  bridged  and  crossed  the  Rhine"; 
here,  at  v^very  turn,  a  feudal  baron,  from  his  high  castle, 
levied  toll  on  the  passers ;  and  here  the  French  found 
a  momentary  halt  to  their  invasion  of  Germany  at  dif- 
ferent times.  You  can  imagine  how,  in  a  misty  morn- 
ing, as  you  leave  Bonn,  the  Seven  Mountains  rise  up  in 
their  veiled  might,  and  how  the  Drachenfels  stands  in  new 
and  changing  beauty  as  you  pass  it  and  sail  away.  You 
have  been  told  that  the  Hudson  is  like  the  Rhine.  Be- 
lieve me,  there  is  no  resemblance ;  nor  would  there  be 
if  the  Hudson  were  lined  with  castles,  and  Julius  Cassar 
had  crossed  it  every  hatt'-mile.  The  Rhine  satisfies  you, 
and  you  do  not  recall  any  other  river.  It  only  disap- 
points you  as  to  its  "  vine-clad  hills."  You  miss  trees 
and  a  covering  vegetation,  and  are  not  enamoured  of  the 
40 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  RHINE.  41 

patches  of  green  vines  on  wall-supported  terraces,  look- 
ing from  the  river  like  hills  of  brans  or  potatoes.  Ami, 
if  you  try  tin-  Rhine  wine  on  the  steamers,  yon  will 
wholly  lose  your  faith  in  the  vintage.  \\Y  decided  that 
the  wine  on  our  boat  was  manufactured  in  the  boiler. 

There  is  a  mercenary  atmosphere  about  hotels  and 
steamers  on  the  Rhine,  a  watering-place,  show-sort  of 
feeling,  that  detracts  very  much  from  one's  enjoyment. 
The  old  habit  of  the  robber  barons  of  levying  toll  on  all 
who  sail  up  and  down  has  not  been  lost.  It  is  not  that 
one  actually  pays  so  much  for  sight-seeing,  but  the  charm 
of  any  tiling  vanishes  when  it  irc  made  merchandise. 
One  is  almost  as  reluctant  to  buy  his  "views  "  as  he  is 
10  sell  his  opinions.  But  one  ought  to  be  weeks  on  the 
Rhine  before  attempting  to  say  any  thing  about  it. 

One  morning,  at  Bingen, —  I  assure  you  it  was  not 
six  o'elock,  —  we  took  a  big  little  row-boat,  and  dropped 
down  the  stream,  past  the  Mouse  Tower,  where  the  cruel 
Bishop  Hatto  was  eaten  up  by  rats,  under  the  shattered 
Castle  of  Ehrenfels,  round  the  bend  to  the  little  village 
of  Assmannshausen,  on  the  hills  baek  of  which  is  grown 
the  famous  red  wine  of  that  name.  On  the  bank  walked 
in  line  a  dozen  peasants,  men  and  women,  in  picturesque 
dress,  towing,  by  a  line  passed  from  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
a  boat  filled  with  marketing  for  Rudesheim.  We  were 
bound  up  the  Niederwald,  the  mountain  opposite  Bin- 
gen,  whose  noble  crown  of  forest  attracted  us.  At  the 
landing,  donkeys  awaited  us ;  and  we  began  the  ascent, 
a  stout,  good-natured  German  girl  acting  as  guide  and 
driver.  Behind  us,  on  the  opposite  shore,  set  round 
about  with  a  wealth  of  foliage,  was  the  Castle  of  Rhein- 
stein,  a  fortress  more  pleasing  in  its  proportions  and 
situation  than  any  other.  Our  way  was  through  the 
little  town  which  is  jammed  into  the  gorge;  and  as  we 
clattered  up  the  pavement,  past  the  church,  its  heavy 
bell  began  to  ring  loudly  for  matins,  the  sound  rever- 
berating in  the  narrow  way,  and  fbllrwirg  UF  \\it\i  its 
benediction  when  \ve  were  far  up  the  J  J  ,  kre^tiiing  thu 


42  A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  RHINE. 

fresh,  inspiring  morning  air.  The  top  of  the  Niederwald 
is  a  splendid  forest  of  trees,  which  no  impious  French- 
man has  been  allowed  to  trim,  and  cut  into  allees  of 
arches,  taking  one  in  thought  ncross  the  water  to  the 
free  Adirondacks.  We  walked  for  a  long  time  under 
the  welcome  shade,  approaching  the  brow  of  the  hill 
now  and  then,  where  some  tower  or  hermitage  is  erected, 
f  jr  a  view  of  the  Rhine  and  the  Nahe,  the  villages  below, 
and  the  hills  around ;  and  then  crossed  the  mountain, 
down  through  cherry  orchards,  and  vineyards,  walled  up, 
with  images  of  Christ  on  the  cross  on  the  angles  of  the 
walls,  down  through  a  hot  road,  where  wild-flowers  grew 
in  great  variety,  to  the  quaint  village  of  Riidesheim, 
with  its  queer  streets  and  ancient  ruins.  Is  it  possible 
that  we  can  have  too  many  ruins  V  "  Oh,  dear  I  "  ex- 
claimed the  jung-frau,  as  we  sailed  along  the  last  day, 
"  if  there  isn't  another  castle  1 " 


HEIDELBERG. 

JF  you  come  to  Heidelberg,  you  will  never  want  to  go 
away.  To  arrive  here  is  to  come  into  a  peace-till 
state  of  rest  and  con  ten t.  The  great  hills  out  of  which 
the  Neckar  flows  infold  the  town  in  a  sweet  security ; 
and  yet  there  is  no  sense  of  imprisonment,  for  the  view 
is  always  wide  open  to  the  great  plains  where  the  Neckar 
goes  to  join  the  Rhine,  and  where  the  Rhine  runs  for 
many  a  league  through  a  rich  and  smiling  land.  One 
could  settle  down  here  to  study,  without  a  desire  to  go 
farther,  nor  any  wish  to  change  the  dingy,  shabby  old 
buildings  of  the  university  ibr  any  thing  newer  and 
smarter.  What  the  students  can  find  to  fight  their 
little  duels  about  I  cannot  see ;  but  fight  they  do,  as 
many  a  scarred  cheek  attests.  The  students  give  life  to 
the  town.  They  go  about  in  little  caps  of  red,  green,  and 
blue,  many  of  them  embroidered  in  gold,  and  stuck  so  far 
on  the  forehead  that  they  require  an  elastic,  like  that 
worn  by  ladies,  under  the  back  hair,  to  keep  them  on ; 
and  they  are  also  distinguished  by  colored  ribbons  across 
the  breast.  The  majority  of  them  are  well-behaved 
young  gentlemen,  who  cany  switch-canes,  and  try  to 
keep  near  the  fashions,  like  students  at  home.  Some 
like  to  swagger  about  in  their  little  skull-caps,  and  now 
and  then  one  is  attended  by  a  bull-dog. 

I  write  in  a  room  which  opens  out  upon  a  balcony. 
Below  it  is  a  garden,  below  that  foliage,  and  farther 
down  the  town  with  its  old  speckled  roofs,  spires,  anj 
queer  little  squares.  Beyond  is  the  Neckar,  with  the 

43 


44  HEIDELBERG. 

bridge,  and  white  statues  on  it,  and  an  old  city  gate  at 
this  end,  with  pointed  towers.  Beyond  that  is  a  white 
road  with  a  wall  on  one  side,  along  which  I  see  peasant- 
women  walking  with  large  baskets  balanced  on  their 
heads.  The  road  runs  down  the  river  to  Neuenheim. 
Above  it  on  the  steep  hillside  are  vineyards ;  and  a 
winding  path  goes  up  to  the  Philosopher's  Walk,  which 
runs  along  for  a  mile  or  more,  giving  delightful  views  of 
the  castle  and  the  glorious  woods  and  hills  back  of  it. 
Above  it  is  the  mountain  of  Heiligenberg,  from  the  other 
side  of  which  one  looks  off  toward  Darmstadt  and  the 
famous  road,  the  Bergstrasse.  If  I  look  down  the  stream, 
I  see  the  narrow  town,  and  the  Neckar  flowing  out  of  it 
into  the  vast  level  plain,  rich  with  grain  and  trees  and 
grass,  with  many  spires  and  villages  ;  Mannheim  to  the 
northward,  shining  when  the  sun  is  low ;  the  Rhine 
gleaming  here  and  there  near  the  horizon ;  and  the 
Vosges  Mountains,  purple  in  the  last  distance :  on  iny 
right,  and  so  near  that  I  could  throw  a  stone  into  them, 
the  ruined  tower  and  battlements  of  the  north-west  corner 
of  the  castle,  half  hidden  in  foliage,  with  statues  framed 
in  ivy,  and  the  garden  terrace,  built  for  Elizabeth  Stuart 
when  she  came  here  the  bride  of  the  Elector  Frederick, 
where  giant  trees  grow.  Under  the  walls  a  steep  path 
goes  down  into  the  town,  along  which  little  houses  cling 
to  the  hillside.  High  above  the  castle  rises  the  noble 
Kbnigstuhl,  whence  the  whole  of  this  part  of  Germany 
is  visible,  and,  in  a  clear  day,  Strasburg  Minster,  ninety 
miles  away. 

I  have  only  to  go  a  few  steps  up  a  narrow,  steep  street, 
lined  with  the  queerest  houses,  where  is  an  ever-run- 
ning pipe  of  good  water,  to  which  all  the  neighborhood 
resorts,  and  I  am  within  the  grounds  of  the  castle.  I 
scarcely  know  where  to  take  you ;  for  I  never  know 
where  to  go  myself,  and  seldom  do  go  where  I  intend 
when  I  set  forth.  We  have  been  here  several  days ;  and 
I  have  not  yet  seen  the  Great  Tun,  nor  the  inside  of  the 
show-rooms,  nor  scarcely  any  thing  that  is  set  down  as  a 


HEIDELBERG.  45 

"  sight."  I  do  not  know  whether  to  wander  on  through 
(lu-  extensive  grounds,  with  Splendid  trees,  hits  of  old 
ruin,  overgrown,  co>cy  nooks,  and  seats  where,  llmwjh 
the  iolia-c,  distant,  prospects  open  into  quid,  retreats 
that  lead  to  winding  walks  up  the  terraced  hill,  round  to 
the  open  terrace  overlooking  the.  Neckar,  and  giving  the 
l;e>t  general  view  of  the  ureat  mass  of  ruins.  If  we  <\n, 
we  shall  he  likely  to  sit  in  sonic  delicious  place,  listen- 
iii-_r  to  the  hand  playing  in  the  ''  Kestauration,"  and  to 
the  nightingales,  till  the  moon  comes  up.  Or  shall  we 
turn  into  the  garden  through  the  lovely  Arch  of  the 
Princess  Elizabeth,  with  its  stone  columns  cut  to  resem- 
ble tree-trunks  twined  with  ivy  ?  Or  go  rather  through 
tlu-  great  archway,  and  under  the  teeth  of  the  portcul- 
lis, into  the  irregular  quadrangle,  whose  buildings  mark 
the  changing  style  and  fortune  of  successive  centuries, 
from  1300  down  to  the  seventeenth  century?  There  is 
probably  no  richer  quadrangle  in  Europe:  there  is  cer- 
tainly no  other  ruin  so  vast,  so  impressive,  so  ornamented 
with  carving,  except  the  Aihambra.  And  from  here  we 
pass  out  upon  the  broad  terrace  of  masonry,  with  a 
splendid  flanking  octagon  tower,  its  base  hidden  in  trees, 
a  rich  facade  for  a  background,  and  below  the  town  the 
river,  and  beyond  the  plain  and  floods  of  golden  sun- 
light. What  shall  we  do?  Sit  and  dream  in  the  Rent 
Tower  under  the  lindens  that  grow  in  its  top  ?  The  day 
passes  while  one  is  deciding  how  to  spend  it,  and  tha 
sun  over  Heiligenberg  goes  down  on  his  purpose. 


ALPINE    NOTES. 


ENTERING    SWITZERLAND. —BERNE, 
ITS  BEAUTIES   AND  BEARS. 

IF  you  come  to  Bale,  you  should  take  rooms  on  the 
river,  or  stand  on  the  bridge  at  evening,  and  have 
a  sunset  of  gold  and  crimson  streaming  down  upon 
the  wide  and  strong  Rhine,  where  it  rushes  between 
the  houses  built  plumb  up  to  it,  or  you  will  not  care 
much  for  the  city.  And  yet  it  is  pleasant  on  the  high 
ground,  where  are  some  stately  buildings,  and  where 
new  gardens  are  laid  out,  and  where  the  American 
consul  on  the  Fourth  of  July  flies  our  flag  over  the 
balcony  of  a  little  cottage  smothered  in  vines  and  gay 
with  flowers.  I  had  the  honor  of  saluting  it  that  day, 
though  I  did  not  know  at  the  time  that  gold  had  risen 
two  or  three  per  cent  under  its  blessed  folds  at  home. 
Not  being  a  shipwrecked  sailor,  or  a  versatile  and  accom- 
plished but  impoverished  naturalized  citizen,  desirous 
of  quick  transit  to  the  land  of  the  free,  I  did  not  call 
upon  the  consul,  but  left  him  under  the  no  doubt  cor- 
rect impression  that  he  was  doing  a  good  thing  by  un- 
folding the  flag  on  the  Fourth. 

You  have  not  journeyed  far  from  Bale  before  you  are 
aware  that  you  are  in  Switzerland.  It  was  showery  the 
day  we  went  down ;  but  the  ride  filled  us  with  the  most 
exciting  expectations.  The  country  recalled  New  Eng- 
land, or  what  New  England  might  be,  if  it  were  culti- 
vated and  adorned,  and  had  good  roads  and  no  fences. 
Here  at  last,  after  the  dusty  German  valleys,  we  entered 
among  real  hills,  round  which  and  through  which,  by 

49 


50  ENTERING  SWITZERL  AND. 

enormous  tunnels,  our  train  slowly  went :  rocks  looking 
out  of  foliage ;  sweet  little  valleys,  green  as  in  early 
spring ;  the  dark  evergreens  in  contrast ;  snug  cottages 
nestled  in  the  hillsides,  showing  little  else  than  enor- 
mous brown  roofs  that  come  nearly  to  the  ground,  giving 
the  cottages  the  appearance  of  huge  toadstools;  fine 
harvests  of  grain ;  thrifty  apple-trees,  and  cherry-trees 
purple  with  luscious  fruit.  And  this  shifting  panorama 
continues  until,  towards  evening,  behold,  on  a  hill,  Berne, 
pinning  through  showers,  the  old  feudal  round  tower  and 
buildings  overhanging  the  Aar,  and  the  tower  of  the 
cathedral  over  all.  From  the  balcony  of  our  rooms  at 
the  Bellevue,  the  long  range  of  the  Bernese  Oberland 
shows  its  white  summits  for  a  moment  in  the  slant  sun- 
shine, and  then  the  clouds  shut  down,  not  to  lift  again 
for  two  days.  Yet  it  looks  warmer  on  the  snow  peaks 
than  in  Berne,  for  summer  sets  in  in  Switzerland  with  a 
New  England  chill  and  rigor. 

The  traveller  finds  no  city  with  more  flavor  of  the 
picturesque  and  quaint  than  Berne ;  and  I  think  it  must 
have  preserved  the  Swiss  characteristics  better  than  any 
other  of  the  large  towns  in  Helvetia.  It  stands  upon  a 
peninsula,  round  which  the  Aar,  a  hundred  feet  below, 
rapidly  flows ;  and  one  has  on  nearly  every  side  very 
pretty  views  of  the  green  basin  of  hills  which  rise  beyond 
the  river.  It  is  a  most  comfortable  town  on  a  rainy  day ; 
for  all  the  principal  streets  have  their  houses  built  on 
arcades,  and  one  walks  under  the  low  arches,  with  the 
shops  on  one  side  and  the  huge  stone  pillars  on  the 
other.  These  pillars  so  stand  out  toward  the  street  as 
to  give  the  house-fronts  a  curved  look.  Above  are  bal- 
conies, in  which,  upon  red  cushions,  sit  the  daughters  of 
Berne,  reading  and  sewing,  and  watching  their  neigh- 
bors; and  in  every  window  nearly  are  quantities  of 
flowers  of  the  most  brilliant  colors.  The  gray  stone  of 
the  houses,  which  are  piled  up  from  the  streets,  harmo- 
nizes well  with  the  colors  in  the  windows  and  balconies; 
aud  the  scene  is  quite  Oriental  as  one  looks  down,  espe- 


BERNE,  ITS  BEAUTIES  AND  BEARS.       51 

cially  if  it  he  upon  a  market  morning,  when  the  streets 
JUT  as  thronged  as  the  Strand.  Several  terraces,  with 
great  trees,  overlook  the  river,  and  coininand  prospects 
of  the  Alps.  Tin-si-  are  public  places;  for  the  city  uov- 
crnirent  has  a  queer  notion  that  trees  are  not  hideous, 
and  that  a  part  of  the  use  of  living  is  the  enjoyment  of 
the  beautiful.  I  saw  an  elegant  bank  budding,  with 
carved  figures  on  the  front,  and  at  each  side  of  tho 
entrance  door  a  large  stand  of  flowers,  —  oleanders,  gera- 
niums, and  fuchsias;  while  the  windows  and  balconies 
above  bloomed  with  a  like  warmth  of  floral  color. 
Would  you  put  an  American  bank  president  in  the  Re- 
treat who  should  so  decorate  his  banking-house?  We 
all  admire  the  tasteful  display  of  flowers  in  foreign 
towns  :  we  go  home,  and  carry  nothing  with  us  but  a 
recollection.  But  Berne  has  also  fountains  everywhere; 
some  of  them  grotesque,  like  the  ogre  that  devours  his 
own  children,  but  all  a  refreshment  a^d  delight.  And 
it  lias  also  its  clock-tower,  with  one  of  those  ingenious 
pieces  of  mechanism,  in  which  the  sober  people  of  this 
region  take  pleasure.  At  the  hour,  a  procession  of  little 
bears  goes  round,  a  jolly  figure  strikes  the  time,  a  cock 
flaps  his  wings  and  crows,  and  a  solemn  Turk  opens  his 
mouth  to  announce  the  flight  of  the  hours.  It  is  more 
grotesque,  but  less  elaborate,  than  the  equally  childish 
toy  in  the  cathedral  at  Strasburg. 

We  went  Sunday  morning  to  the  cathedral ;  and  the  ex- 
cellent -woman  who  guards  the  portal  —  where  in  ancient 
stone  the  Last  Judgment  is  enacted,  and  the  cheerful  and 
conceited  wise  virgins  stand  over  against  the  foolish  vir- 
gins, one  of  whom  has  been  in  the  penitential  attitude 
of  having  a  stone  finger  in  her  eye  now  for  over  three 
hundred  years  —  refused  at  first  to  admit  us  to  the  German 
Lutheran  service,  which  was  just  beginning.  It  seems 
that  doors  are  locked,  and  no  one  is  allowed  to  issue 
forth  until  after  service.  There  seems  to  be  an  impres- 
sion that  strangers  only  go  to  hear  the  organ,  which  is  a 
sort  of  rival  of  that  at  Freiburg,  and  do  not  care  much 


52  ENTERING  SWITZERLAND. 

for  the  well-prepared  and  protracted  discourse  in  Swiss- 
German.  We  agreed  to  the  terms  of  admission ;  but  it 
did  not  speak  well  for  former  travellers  that  the  woman 
should  think  it  necessary  to  say,  "  You  must  sit  still,  and 
not  talk."  It  is  a  barn-like  interior.  The  women  all  sit 
on  hard,  high-backed  benches  in  the  centre  of  the  church, 
and  the  men  on  hard,  higher-backed  benches  about  the 
Bides,  enclosing  and  facing  the  women,  who  are  more 
directly  under  the  droppings  of  the  little  pulpit,  hung 
on  one  of  the  pillars,  —  a  very  solemn  and  devout  con- 
gregation, who  sang  very  well,  and  paid  strict  attention 
to  the  sermon.  I  noticed  that  the  names  of  the  owners, 
and  sometimes  their  coats-of-arms,  were  carved  or 
painted  on  the  backs  of  the  seats,  as  if  the  pews  were 
not  put  up  at  yearly  auction.  One  would  not  call  it  a 
dressy  congregation,  though  the  homely  women  looked 
neat  in  black  waists  and  white  puffed  sleeves  and  broad- 
brimmed  hats. 

The  only  concession  I  have  anywhere  seen  to  women 
in  Switzerland,  as  the  more  delicate  sex,  was  in  this 
church :  they  sat  during  most  of  the  service,  but  the 
men  stood  all  the  time,  except  during  the  delivery  of 
the  sermon.  The  service  bega*i  at  nine  o'clock,  as  it 
ought  to  with  us  in  summer.  The  costume  of  the  peas- 
ant-women in  and  about  Berne  comes  nearer  to  being 
picturesque  than  in  most  other  parts  of  Switzerland, 
where  it  is  simply  ugly.  You  know  the  sort  of  thing  in 
pictures,  —  the  broad  hat,  short  skirt,  black,  pointed  stom- 
acher, with  white  puffed  sleeves,  and  from  each  breast  a 
large  silver  chain  hanging,  which  passes  under  the  arm 
and  fastens  on  the  shoulder  behind,  —  a  very  favorite 
ornament.  This  costume  would  not  be  unbecoming  to 
a  pretty  face  and  fgure :  whether  there  are  any  such 
native  to  Switzerland,  I  trust  I  may  not  be  put  upon  the 
witness-stand  to  declare.  Some  of  the  peasnnt  young 
men  went  without  coats,  and  with  the  shirt-sleeves 
lluteil ;  an.l  others  wore  butternut-colored  suits,  the  coats 
of  which  I  can  recommend  to  those  who  like  the  swal 


ITS  BEAUTIES  AND  BEAKS.       53 

low-tailed  variety.  1  suppose  one  would  take  a  man 
into  tin.4  opera  in  London,  where  he  cannot  <:<>  in  any 
tiling  but  that  sc.rt.  The  buttons  on  the  backs  of  these 
came  high  up  between  (lie  shoulders,  and  the  tails  did 
not  reach  below  the  waistband.  There  is  a  kind  of 
roo-fcr  of  similar  appearance.  I  saw  some  of  thcs<j 
young  men  from  the  country,  with  their  sweethearts, 
leaning  over  the  stone  parapet,  and  looking  into  the  pit 
of  the  bear-garden,  where  the  city  bears  walk  round,  or 
sit  on  their  hind  legs  for  bits  of  bread  thrown  to  them, 
or  douse  themselves  in  the  tanks,  or  climb  the  dead  trees 
set  up  for  their  gambols.  Years  ago  they  ate  up  a  British 
ollicer  who  tell  in  ;  and  they  walk  round  now  ceaselessly, 
as  if  looking  for  another.  But  one  cannot  expect  good 

ni  a  bear. 

It'  you  would  see  how  charming  a  farming  country  can 
be,  drive  out  on  the  highway  towards  Thun.  For  miles 
it  is  well  shaded  with  giant  trees  of  enormous  trunks, 
and  a  clean  sidewalk  runs  by  the  fine  road.  On  either 
side,  at  little  distances  from  the  road,  are  picturesque 
cottages  and  rambling  old  farmhouses  peeping  from  the 
trees  and  vines  and  flowers.  Everywhere  flowers,  be- 
fore the  house,  in  the  windows,  at  the  railway  stations. 
But  one  cannot  stay  forever  even  in  delightful  Berne, 
with  its  fountains  and  terraces,  and  girls  on  red  cushions 
in  the  windows,  and  noble  trees  and  flowers,  and  its 
stately  federal  Capitol,  and  its  bears  carved  everywhere 
in  stone  and  wood;  nor  its  sunrises,  when  all  the  Bernese 
Alps  lie  like  molten  silver  in  the  early  light,  and  the 
clouds  drift  over  them,  now  hiding,  low  disclosing,  the 
enchanting  heights. 


HEARING    THE     FREIBURG     ORGAN.— 
FIRST  SIGHT  OF  LAKE  LEMAN. 

"TjlKEIBURG,  with  its  aerial  suspension-bridges,  is 
Jj  also  on  a  peninsula,  formed  by  the  Sarine ;  with  its 
old  walls,  old  watch-towers,  its  piled-up  old  houses,  and 
streets  that  go  up  stairs,  and  its  delicious  cherries,  which 
you  can  eat  while  you  sit  in  the  square  by  the  famous 
linden-tree,  and  wait  for  the  time  when  the  organ  will 
be  played  in  the  cathedral.  For  all  the  world  stops  at 
Freiburg  to  hear  and  enjoy  the  great  organ,  —  all  except 
the  self-satisfied  English  clergyman,  who  says  he  doesn't 
care  much  for  it,  and  would  rather  go  about  town  and 
see  the  old  walls;  and  the  young  and  boorish  French 
couple,  whose  refined  amusement  in  the  railway-carriage 
consisted  in  the  young  man's  catching  his  wife's  foot  in 
the  window-strap,  and  hauling  it  up  to  the  level  of  the 
window,  and  who  cross  themselves  and  go  out  after  the 
first  tune ;  and  the  two  bread-and-butter  English  young 
ladies,  one  of  whom  asks  the  other  in  the  midst  of  the 
performance,  if  she  has  thought  yet  to  count  the  pipes, 
—  a  thoughtful  verification  of  Murray,  which  is  very 
commendable  in  a  young  woman  travelling  for  the  im- 
provement of  her  little  mind. 

One  has  heard  so  much  of  this  organ,  that  he  expects 
impossibilities,  and  is  at  first  almost  disappointed,  al- 
though it  is  not  long  in  discovering  its  vast  compass, 
and  its  wonderful  imitations,  now  of  a  full  orchestra, 
and  again  of  a  single  instrument.  One  has  not  to  wait 
long  before  he  is  mastered  by  its  spell.  The  vox  Tiumana 


TIII-:  i-RF.nirRG  ORGAN.       5$ 

Ftop  (lul  not  strike  me  a--  so  perfect  as  tliat  of  llie  organ 
in  the  Kcv.  Mr.  Male's  church  in  Uoston,  though  tin) 
imitation  of  choir-voices  responding  to  the  or^an  was 
Very  ctl'cctive.  lint  it  i>  not  in  tricks  of  imitation  that 
this  origin  is  M>  wonderful:  it  is  its  power  of  revealing, 
by  all  its  compass,  the  inmost  part  of  any  musical  com- 
position. 

The  last  piece  we  heard  was  something  like  this: 
the  sound  of  a  lx.ill,  tolling  at  regular  intervals,  like  the 
throbbing  of  a  life  begun;  about  it  an  accompaniment 
of  hopes,  inducements,  fears,  the  llnte,  the  violin,  the 
violoncello,  promising,  urging  entreating,  inspiring;  the 
life  beset  with  trials,  lured  with  pleasures,  hesitating, 
doubting,  questioning;  its  purpose  at  length  grows  more 
certain  and  fixed,  the  bell  tolling  becomes  a  prolonged 
undertone,  the  flow  of  a  definite  life;  the  music  goes  on, 
twining  round  it,  now  one  sweet  instrument  and  now 
many,  in  strit'e  or  accord,  all  the  influences  of  earth  and 
heaven  and  the  base  under  world  meeting  and  warring 
over  the  aspiring  soul ;  the  struggle  becomes  more  earnest, 
the  undertone  is  louder  and  clearer;  the  accompaniment 
indicates  striving,  contesting  passion,  an  agony  of  en- 
deavor and  re>ir-tance,  until  at  length  the  steep  and  rocky 
way  is  passed,  the  world  and  self  are  conquered,  and,  in 
a  burst  of  triumph  from  a  full  orchestra,  the  soul  attains 
the  serene  summit.  But  the  rest  is  only  for  a  moment. 
Even  in  the  highest  places  are  temptations.  The  sun- 
shine fails,  clouds  roll  up,  growling  of  low,  pedal  thun- 
der is  heard,  while  sharp  lightning-flashes  soon  break  in 
clashing  peals  about  the  peaks.  This  is  the  last  Alpine 
storm  and  trial.  After  it  the  sun  bursts  out  again,  the 
wide,  sunny  valleys  are  disclosed,  and  a  sweet  evening 
hymn  floats  through  all  the  peaceful  air.  We  go  out 
from  the  cool  church  into  the  busy  streets  of  the  white, 
<:nty  town  awed  and  comforted. 

And  such  a  ride  afterwards  !  It  was  as  if  the  organ 
music  still  continued.  All  the  world  knows  the  exquisite 
views  southward  from  Freiburg  ;  but  such  an  atmosphere 


56  FIRST  SIGHT  OF  LAKE  LEMAM 

as  we  had  does  not, overhang  them  many  times  in  a  sea- 
son. First  the  Moleross,  and  a  range  of  mountains 
bathed  in  misty  blue  light,  —  rugged  peaks,  scarred  sides, 
white  and  tawny  at  once,  rising  into  the  elouds  which 
hung  large  and  soft  in  the  blue ;  soon  Mont  Blanc,  dim 
and  aerial,  in  the  south;  the  lovely  valley  of  the  River 
Sense ;  peasants  walking  with  burdens  on  the  white 
highway  ;  the  quiet  and  soft-tinted  mountains  beyond ; 
towns  perched  on  hills,  with  old  castles  and  towers ;  the 
land  rich  with  grass,  grain,  fruit,  flowers ;  at  Palezieux 
a  magnificent  view  of  the  silver,  purple,  and  blue  moun- 
tains, with  their  chalky  seams  and  gashed  sides,  near  at 
hand ;  and  at  length,  coming  through  a  long  tunnel,  as 
if  we  had  been  shot  out  into  the  air  above  a  country 
more  surprising  than  any  in  dreams,  the  most  wonderful 
sight  burst  upon  us,  —  the  low-lying,  deep-blue  Lake 
Leman,  and  the  gigantic  mountains  rising  from  its  shores, 
and  a  sort  of  mist,  translucent,  suffused  with  sunlight, 
like  the  liquid  of  the  golden  wine  the  Steinberger 
poured  into  the  vast  basin.  We  came  upon  it  out  of 
total  darkness,  without  warning ;  and  we  seemed,  from 
our  great  height,  to  be  about  to  leap  into  the  splendid 
gulf  of  tremulous  light  and  color. 

This  Lake  of  Geneva  is  said  to  combine  the  robust 
mountain  grandeur  of  Luzerne  with  all  the  softness  of 
atmosphere  of  Lake  Maggiore.  Surely,  nothing  could 
exceed  the  loveliness  as  we  wound  down  the  hillside, 
through  the  vineyards,  to  Lausanne,  and  farther  on,  near 
the  foot  of  the  lake,  to  Montreux,  backed  by  precipitous 
but  tree-clad  hills,  fronted  by  the  lovely  water,  and  the 
great  mountains  which  run  away  south  into  Savoy, 
where  Velan  lifts  up  its  snows.  Below  us,  round  the 
curving  bay,  lies  white  Chillon ;  and  at  sunset  we  row 
down  to  it  over  the  bewitched  water,  and  wait  under  its 
grim  walls  till  the  failing  light  brings  back  the  romance 
of  castle  and  prisoner.  Our  cjar^on  had  never  heard  of 
the  prisoner ;  but  Le  knew  about  the  gendarmes  who 
now  occupy  the  castle. 


OUR   ENGLISH   FRIENDS. 

"VTOT  the  least  of  the  traveller's  pleasure  in  Switzer- 
JL_N  laud  is  derived  from  llie  English  people  who  over- 
run it.  :  they  seem  to  regard  it  as  a  kind  of  private  park 
or  preserve  behni^in-j:  to  England  ;  and  they  establish 
themselves  at  hotels,  or  on  steamboats  and  diligences, 
wiih  a  certain  air  of  ownership  that  is  very  pleasant.  I 
am  not  very  fresh  in  my  geology;  but  it  is  my  impres  ion 
that  Switzerland  was  created  especially  for  the  English, 
about  the  year  of  the  Magna  Charta,  or  a  little  later. 
The  Germans  who  come  here,  and  who  don't  care  very 
much  what  they  eat,  or  how  they  sleep,  provided  they  do 
not  have  any  fresh  air  in  dining-room  or  bedroom,  and 
provided,  also,  that  the  bread  is  a  little  sour,  growl  a  good 
deal  about  the  English,  and  declare  that  they  have  spoiled 
Switzerland.  The  natives,  too,  who  live  off  the  English, 
seem  to  thoroughly  hate  them  ;  so  that  one  is  often  com- 
pelled, in  self-defence,  to  proclaim  his  nationality,  which 
is  like  running  from  Scylla  upon  Charybdis ;  for,  while 
the  American  is  more  popular,  it  is  believed  that  there 
is  no  bottom  to  his  pocket. 

There  was  a  sprig  of  the  Church  of  England  on  the 
steamboat  on  Lake  Leman,  who  spread  himself  upon  a 
centre  bench,  and  discoursed  very  instructively  to  his 
friends,  —  a  stout,  fat-faced  young  man  in  a  white  cravat, 
whose  voice  was  at  once  loud  and  melodious  and  whom 
our  manly  Oxford  student  set  down  as  a  man  who  had 
just  rubbed  through  the  university,  and  got  into  a  scanty 
Uvii  g. 

67 


58  OUR  ENGLISH  FRIENDS. 

"  I  met  an  American  on  the  boat  yesterday,"  the  oracle 
was  saying  to  his  friends,  "  who  was  really  quite  a 
pleasant  fellow.  lie  —  a  really  was,  you  know,  quite  a 
sensible  man.  I  asked  him  if  they  had  any  thing  like 
this  in  America;  and  he  was  obliged  to  say  that  they 
hadn't  any  thing  like  it  in  his  country ;  they  really  hadn't. 
lie  was  really  quite  a  sensible  fellow ;  said  he  was  over 
here  to  do  the  European  tour,  as  he  called  it." 

Small,  sympathetic  laugh  from  the  attentive,  wiry,  red- 
faced  woman  on  the  oracle's  left,  and  also  a  chuckle,  at 
i he  expense  of  the  American,  from  the  thin  Englishman 
on  his  right,  who  wore  a  large  white  waistcoat,  a  blue  veil 
on  his  hat,  and  a  face  as  red  as  a  live  coal. 

"  Quite  an  admission,  wasn't  it,  from  an  American  ? 
But  I  think  they  have  changed  since  the  wah,  you  know." 

At  the  next  landing,  the  smooth  and  beaming  church- 
man was  left  by  his  friends  ;  and  he  soon  retired  to  the 
cabin,  where  I  saw  him  self-saerificingly  denying  himself 
the  views  on  deck,  and  consoling  himself  with  a  substan- 
tial lunch  and  a  bottle  of  Eno-Hsh  ale. 

There  is  one  thing  to  be  said  about  the  English  abroad : 
the  variety  is  almost  infinite.  The  best  acquaintances 
one  makes  will  be  English,  —  people  with  no  nonsense 
and  strong  individuality ;  and  one  gets  no  end  of  enter- 
tainment from  the  other  sort.  Very  different  from  the 
clergyman  on  the  boat  was  the  old  lady  at  table-d'hote 
in  one  of  the  hotels  on  the  lake.  One  would  not  like  to 
call  her  a  delightfully- wicked  old  woman,  like  the  Bar- 
oness Bernstein ;  but  she  had  her  own  witty  and  satiri- 
cal way  of  regarding  the  world.  She  had  lived  twenty- 
five  years  at  Geneva,  where  people,  years  ago,  coming 
over  the  dusty  and  hot  roads  of  France,  used  to  faint 
away  when  they  first  caught  sight  of  the  Alps.  Be- 
lieve they  don't  do  it  now.  She  never  did ;  was  past 
the  susceptible  age  when  she  first  came ;  was  tired  of 
the  people.  Honest  V  Why,  yes,  honest,  but  very  fond 
of  money.  Fine  Swiss  wood-carving?  Yes.  You'll 
get  very  sick  of  it.  Ft's  very  nice,  but  I'm  tired  of  it. 


OUR  ENGLISH  FRIENDS.  59 

Years  a -jo,  I  sent  porno  of  it  home  to  (lie  folks  in  Eng- 
land. They  thought  every  tiling  <>f  it  ;  and  it  wasn't 
very  nice,  either, —  a  cheap  sort,  floral  ideas?  I  don't 
i-aiv  lor  moral  ideas:  people  make  such  a  I'uss  about 
them  lately  (this  in  reply  to  her  next  neighbor,  an 
i-ercntric,  thin  man,  with  bushy  hair,  sha^y  eyebrows, 
and  a  high,  falsetto  voice,  who  rallied  the  witty  old  lady 
all  dinner-time  about  her  laek  of  moral  ideas,  and  accu- 
rately described  the  thin  wine  on  the  table  as  ''water- 
bewitched  ").  Why  didn't  the  baroness  <_L-O  back  to  Knir- 
land,  it' she  was  so  tired  of  Switzerland  ?  Well,  she  was 
too  infirm  now  ;  and,  besides,  she  didn't  like  to  trust 
herself  on  tlie  railroads.  And  there  were  so  many  new 
inventions  now-a-days,  of  which  she  read.  What  was 
this  nitro-iLlycerine,  that  exploded  so  dreadfully?  No: 
idie  thought  she  should  stay  where  she  was. 

There  is  little  risk  of  mistaking  the  Englishman,  with 
oi%  without  his  family,  who  has  set  out  to  do  Switzerland. 
He  wears  a  brandy-flask,  a  field-glass,  and  a  haversack. 
Whether  he  has  a  silk  or  soft  hat,  he  is  certain  to  wear  a 
veil  tied  round  it.  This  precaution  is  adopted  when  he 
makes  up  his  mind  to  come  to  Switzerland,  1  think,  be- 
cause  he  has  read  that  a  veil  is  necessary  to  protect  the 
eyes  from  the  snow-glare.  There  is  probably  not  one 
traveller  in  a  hundred  who  gets  among  the  ice  and  snow- 
fields  where  he  needs  a  veil  or  green  glasses:  but  it  is 
well  to  have  it  on  the  hat;  it  looks  adventurous.  The 
veil  and  the  spiked  alpenstock  are  the  signs  of  peril. 
Everybody  —  almost  everybody  —  has  an  alpenstock. 
It  is  usually  a  round  pine  stick,  with  an  iron  spike  in  one 
end.  That,  also,  is  a  sign  of  peril.  We  saw  a  noble 
young  Briton  on  the  steamer  the  other  day,  who  was 
got  up  in  the  best  Alpine  manner.  He  wore  a  short 
sack,  —  in  fact,  an  entire  suit  of  li(j.ht  gray  flannel,  which 
closely  fitted  his  lithe  form.  His  shoes  were  of  un- 
dressed leather,  with  large  spikes  in  the  soles;  and  on 
his  white  hat  lie  wore  a  large  quantity  of  gau/e,  which 
fell  in  iblds  down  his  neck.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  he 


60  OUR  ENGLISH  FRIENDS. 

had  a  red  face,  a  shaven  chin,  and  long  side- whiskers. 
He  carried  a  formidable  alpenstock ;  and  at  the  little 
landing  where  we  first  saw  him,  and  afterward  on  the 
boat,  he  leaned  on  rt  in  a  series  of  the  most  graceful  and 
daring  attitudes  thai  I  ever  saw  the  human  form  assume. 
Our  Oxford  student  knew  the  variety,  and  guessed 
rightly  that  he  was  an  army  man.  He  had  his  face 
burned  at  Malta.  Had  he  been  over  the  Gemini  ?  Or 
up  this  or  that  mountain  V  asked  another  English  offi- 
cer. "No,  I  have  not."  And  it  turned  out  that  he 
hadn't  been  anywhere,  and  didn't  seem  likely  to  do  any 
thing  but  show  himself  at  the  frequented  valley  places. 
And  yet  I  never  saw  one  whose  gallant  bearing  I  so 
much  admired.  We  saw  him  afterward  at  Interlaken, 
enduring  all  the  hardships  of  that  fashionable  place. 
There  was  also  there  another  of  the  same  country,  got 
up  for  the  most  dangerous  Alpine  climbing,  conspicuous 
in  red  woollen  stockings  that  came  above  his  knees.  I 
could  not  learn  that  he  ever  went  up  any  thing  higher 
than  the  top  of  a  diligence. 


THE  DILIGENCE  TO   CHAMOUNY. 

r  I  iHK  greatest  diligence  we  have  seen,  one  of  the  few 

1  of  the  old-fashioned  sort,  is  the  one  from  Geneva 
to  Cliainouny.  Jt  leaves  early  in  the  morning;  and 
there  is  always  a  crowd  about  it  to  see  the  mount  and 
start.  The  great  ark  stands  before  the  diligence-office* 
and.  for  half  an  hour  before  the  hour  of  Starting,  the  por- 
ters are  busy  stowing  away  the  baggage,  and  getting  the 
passengers  on  board.  On  top,  in  the  banquette,  are 
seats  lor  eight,  besides  the  postilion  and  guard;  in  the 
coupe,  under  the  postilion's  seat,  and  looking  upon  the 
horses,  seats  for  three  ;  in  the  interior,  for  three  ;  and  on 
top,  behind,  for  six  or  eight.  The  baggage  is  stowed  in 
'he  capacious  bowels  of  the  vehicle.  At  seven,  the  six 
horses  are  brought  out  and  hitched  on,  three  abreast. 
We  climb  up  a  ladder  to  the  banquette :  there  is  an 
irascible  Frenchman,  who  gets  into  the  wrong  seat ;  and 
before  he  gets  right  there  is  a  terrible  war  of  words 
between  him  and  the  guard  and  the  porters  and  the 
hosiers,  everybody  joining  in  with  great  vivacity:  in 
front  of  us  are  three  quiet  Americans,  and  a  slim  French- 
man with  a  tall  hat  and  one  eye-glass.  The  postilion 
gets  up  to  his  place.  Crack,  crack,  crack,  goes  the 
whip;  and,  amid  "sensation"  from  the  crowd,  we  are 
off  at  a  rattling  pace,  the  whip  cracking  all  the  time  like 
Chinese  fireworks.  The  great  passion  of  the  drivers  is 
noise;  and  they  keep  the  whip  going  all  day.  !Na 
sooner  does  a  fresh  one  mount  the  box  than  he  gives  a 
hall-dozen  preliminary  snaps ;  to  which  the  horses  pay 

61 


62  THE  DILIGENCE  TO  CIIAMOUNY. 

no  heed,  as  they  know  it  is  only  for  the  driver's  amuse- 
ment. We  go  at  a  good  gait,  changing  horses  every 
six  miles,  till  we  reach  the  Baths  of  St.  Gervais,  where 
we  dine,  from  near  which  we  get  our  first  glimpse  of  Mont 
Blanc  through  clouds,  — a  section  of  a  dazzlingly- white 
glacier,  a  very  exciting  thing  to  the  imagination.  Thence 
we  go  on  in  small  carriages,  over  a  still  excellent  but 
more  hilly  road,  and  begin  to  enter  the  real  mountain 
wonders ;  until,  at  length,  real  glaciers  pouring  down  out 
of  the  clouds  nearly  to  the  road  meet  us,  and  we  enter 
the  narrow  Valley  of  Chamouny,  through  which  we  drive 
to  the  village  in  a  rain. 

Everybody  goes  to  Chamouny,  and  up  the  Flegere, 
and  to  Montanvert,  and  over  the  Mer  de  Glace ;  and 
nearly  everybody  down  the  Mauvais  Pas  to  the  Chapeau, 
and  so  back  to  the  village.  It  is  all  easy  to  do  ;  and  yet 
we  saw  some  French  people  at  the  Chapeau  who  seemed 
to  think  they  had  accomplished  the  most  hazardous  thing 
in  the  world  in  coming  down  the  rocks  of  the  Mauvais 
Pas.  There  is,  as  might  be  expected,  a  great  deal  of 
humbug  about  the  difficulty  of  getting  about  in  the  Alps, 
and  the  necessity  of  guides.  Most  of  the  dangers  van- 
ish on  near  approach.  The  Mer  de  Glace  is  inferior  to 
many  other  glaciers,  and  is  not  nearly  so  fine  as  the 
G lacier  des  Bossons :  but  it  has  a  reputation,  and  is  easy 
of  access;  so  people  are  content  to  walk  over  the  dirty 
ice.  One  sees  it  to  better  effect  from  uelow,  or  he  must 
ascend  it  to  the  Jardin  to  know  that  it  has  deep  cre- 
vasses, and  is  as  treacherous  as  it  is  grand.  And  yet  no 
one  will  be  disappointed  at  the  view  from  Montanvert, 
of  the  upper  glacier,  and  the  needles  of  rock  and  snow 
which  rise  beyond. 

We  met  at  the  Chapeau  two  Jolly  young  fellows  from 
Charleston,  S.  C/.,  who  had  been  in  the  war,  on  the 
wrong  side.  They  knew  no  language  but  American,  and 
were  unable  to  order  a  cutlet  and  an  omelet  for  break- 
fast. They  said  they  believed  they  were  going  over  the 
Tete  Noire.  They  supposed  they  had  four  mules  wait* 


THE  DILIGENCE  TO  CIIAMOUNY.  63 

inj  IV  tli'-in  som.'wheiv,  ami  a  guide;  but  they  couldn't 
Understand  a  word  he  s;iid,  and  lu1  couldn't  understand 
tlu-iii.  The  day  betbre.  tlu-y  liad  nearly  pcrMied  ,,j' 
tliirst.  because  they  couldn't  make  their  guide  compre- 
hend ihat  they  wanted  waler.  One  of  tlicin  had  slung 
over  his  shoulder  an  Alpine  horn,  which  ho  blew  occa- 
sionally, and  seemed  much  to  enjoy.  All  this  while  we 
sit  on  a  rock  at  the  loot  of  the  Mauvais  Pas,  looking  out 
upon  the  green  glacier,  which  here  piles  itself  up  finely, 
and  above  to  the  Aiguilles  de  Charmoz  and  the  innu- 
merable ice-pinnacles  that  run  up  to  the  clouds,  whde 
our  muleteer  is  getting  his  breakfast.  This  is  his  third 
breakfa-t  this  morning. 

The  day  after  we  reached  Chamouny,  Mon seigneur 
the  bishop  arrived  there  on  one  of  his  rare  pilgrimages 
into  these  wild  valleys.  Nearly  all  the  way  down  from 
(ieneva,  we  had  seen  signs  of  his  coming,  in  preparations 
as  for  the  celebration  of  a  great  victory.  I  did  not  know 
at  first  but  the  Atlantic  cable  had  been  laid,  or  rather  that 
the  decorations  were  on  account  of  the  news  of  it  reach- 
ing this  region.  It  was  a  holiday  for  all  classes;  and 
everybody  lent  a  hand  to  the  preparations.  First,  the 
little  church  where  the  confirmations  were  to  take  place 
was  trimmed  within  and  without ;  and  an  arch  of  green 
spanned  the  gateway.  At  Les  Pres,  the  women  were 
sweeping  the  road,  and  the  men  were  setting  small  ever- 
green trees  on  each  side.  The  peasants  were  in  their 
best  clothes ;  and  in  front  of  their  wretched  hovels  were 
tables  set  out  with  flowers.  So  cheerful  and  eager  were 
they  about  the  bishop,  that  they  forgot  to  beg  as  we 
I  :  the  whole  valley  was  in  a  fever  of  expectation. 
At  one  hamlet  on  the  mule-path  over  the  Tete  Noire, 
where  the  bishop  was  that  day  expected,  and  the  wo- 
men were  sweeping  away  all  (lust  and  litter  from  the 
road,  I  removed  my  hat,  and  gravely  thanked  them  for 
their  thoughtful  preparation  for  our  coming.  But  they 
only  stared  a  little,  as  if  we  were  not  worthy  to  be  even 
forerunners  of  Mouseurneur. 


64  THE  DILIGENCE  TO  CHAMOUNY. 

I  do  not  care  to  write  here  how  serious  a  drawback  ta 
the  pleasures  of  this  region  are  its  inhabitants.  You  get 
the  impression  that  half  of  them  are  beggars.  The  other 
half  are  watching  for  a  chance  to  prey  upon  you  in  other 
ways.  I  heard  of  a  woman  in  the  Zermatt  Valley  who 
refused  pay  for  a  glass  of  milk ;  but  I  did  not  have  time 
to  verify  the  report.  Besides  the  beggars,  who  may  or 
may  not  be  horrid-looking  creatures,  there  are  the  grin- 
ning Cretins,  the  old  women  with  skins  of  parchment 
and  the  goitre,  and  even  young  children  with  the  loath- 
some appendage,  the  most  wretched  and  filthy  hovels, 
and  the  dirtiest,  ugliest  people  in  them.  The  poor 
women  are  the  beasts  of  burden.  They  often  lead,  mow- 
ing iii  the  hayfield  ;  they  carry  heavy  baskets  on  their 
backs ;  they  balance  on  their  heads  and  carry  large  wash- 
tubs  full  of  water.  The  more  appropriate  load  of  one 
was  a  cradle  with  a  baby  in  it,  which  seemed  not  at  all 
to  fear  falling.  When  one  sees  how  the  women  are 
treated,  he  does  not  wonder  that  there  are  so  many  de- 
formed, hideous  children.  I  think  the  pretty  girl  has  yet 
to  be  born  in  Switzerland. 

This  is  not  much  about  the  Alps  ?  Ah,  well,  the  Alps 
are  there.  Go  read  your  guide-book,  and  find  out  what 
your  emotions  are.  As  I  said,  everybody  goes  to  Cha- 
mouny.  Is  it  not  enough  to  sit  at  your  window,  and 
watch  the  clouds  when  they  lift  from  the  Mont  Blanc 
range,  disclosing  splendor  after  splendor,  from  the 
Aiguille  de  Goute  to  the  Aiguille  Verte,  —  white  needles 
which  pierce  the  air  for  twelve  thousand  feet,  until,  jubi- 
late! the  round  summit  of  the  monarch  himself  is  visible, 
and  the  vast  expanse  of  white  snow-fields,  the  whiteness  of 
which  is  rather  of  heaven  than  of  earth,  dazzles  the  eyes, 
even  at  so  great  a  distance  ?  Everybody  who  is  patient, 
and  waits  in  the  cold  and  inhospitable-looking  valley  of 
the  Chamouny  long  enough,  sees  Mont  Blanc;  but  every 
one  does  not  see  a  sunset  of  the  royal  order.  The  clouds 
breaking  up  and  clearing,  after  days  of  bad  weather, 
showed  us  height  after  height,  and  peak  after  peak,  now 


THE  DILIGENCE  TO  CIIAMOUNY.          65 

wreathing  tin*  summits,  now  settling  In-low  or  hanging  in 
patches  on  tin.'  sides.  :nul  again  soaring  above,  until  we 
had  tlu'  whole  ramie  lyin'jr,  lar  and  brilliant,  in  the  even- 
ing liii'ht.  The  clouds  took  on  gOrgCOUfl  Colors,  at  length, 
and  soon  the  snow  caught  the  line,  and  whole  fields  were 
rosy  pink,  while  uplifted  peaks  plowed  red,  as  witli  inter- 
nal" lire.  Only  Mont  Blanc,  alar  oil',  remained  purely 
•white,  in  a  kind  of  ri-^al  inaccessihility.  And,  after- 
•ward.  one  star  came  out  over  it,  and  a  bright  liuht  shone 
from  the  hut  on  the  (Jrand  Midets,  a  rock  in  the  waste 
of  snow,  where  a  Frenchman  was  passing  the  night  on 
his  way  to  the  summit. 

Shall  I  describe  the  passage  of  the  Tete  Noire?  My 
friend,  it  is  twenty-lour  miles,  a  road  somewhat  hilly, 
with  splendid  views  of  Mont  P>lane  in  the  morning,  ana 
of  the  liernese  Oherland  range  in  the  afternoon,  when 
you  descend  into  Martigny,  —  a  hot  place  in  the  dusty 
Illume  Valley,  which  has  a  comfortable  hotel,  with  a 
pleasant  garden,  in  which  you  sit  after  dinner  and  let 
the  mosquitoes  eat  you. 


THE   MAN  WHO   SPEAKS   ENGLISH. 

IT  was  eleven  o'clock  at  night  when  we  reached  Sion, 
a  dirty  little  town  at  the  end  of  the  Rhone -Valley 
Railway,  and  got  into  the  omnibus  for  the  hotel ;  and  it 
was  also  dark  and  rainy.  They  speak  German  in  this 
part  of  Switzerland,  or  what  is  called  German.  There 
were  two  very  pleasant  Americans,  who  spoke  American, 
going  on  in  the  diligence  at  half-past  five  in  the  morn- 
ing, on  their  way  over  the  Simplon.  One  of  them  was 
accustomed  to  speak  good,  broad  English  very  distinctly 
to  all  races ;  and  he  seemed  to  expect  that  he  must  be 
understood  if  he  repeated  his  observations  in  a  louder 
tone,  as  he  always  did.  I  think  he  would  force  all  this 
country  to  speak  English  in  two  months.  We  all  desired 
to  secure  places  in  the  diligence,  which  was  likely  to  be 
full,  as  is  usually  the  case  when  a  railway  discharges  itself 
into  a  post-road. 

We  were  scarcely  in  the  omnibus,  when  the  gentleman 
said  to  the  conductor :  — 

u  I  want  two  places  in  the  coupe  of  the  diligence  in  the 
morning.  Can  I  have  them  ?  " 

"  Yah,"  replied  the  good-natured  German,  who  didn't 
understand  a  word. 

"  Two  places,  diligence,  coupe,  morning.     Is  it  full  ?  " 

"  Yah,"  replied  the  accommodating  fellow.  "  Hotel, 
man  spik  English." 

I  suggested  the  banquette  as  desirable,  if  it  could  be 
obtained,  and  the  German  was  equally  willing  to  give  it 
to  us.  Descending  from  the  omnibus  at  the  hotel,  in  a 
66 


THE  MAN  WHO  SPEAKS  ENGLISH.         67 

ilrix/liivj;  rain,  and  amidst  a  crowd  <>f  porters  and  j>osfil- 
i«>n^  and  runners,  the  "man  who  spoke  English  "  imme- 
diately presented  himself;  and  upon  him  the  American 
iHMinerd  with  a  torrent  of  questions.  He  w.is  a  willing, 
ively  little  waiter,  with  his  moony  lace  on  the  top  ot  his 
head  :  and  he  jumped  round  in  t!ie  rain  like,  a  parching 
pea,  rolling  his  head  about  in  the.  funniest  manner. 

The  American  steadied  the  little  man  by  the  collar, 
and  began.  — 

"  I  want  to  secure,  two  seats  in  the  coupe  of  the  dili- 
gence in  the  morning." 

M  Yaas/'  jumping  round,  and  looking  from  one  to  an- 
other. "  Diligence,  coupe,  morning." 

**  I  —  want  —  two  seats  —  in  —  coupe.  If  I  can't  get 
them,  two  —  in  —  banquette." 

**  Yaas  —  banquette,  coupe,  — yaas,  diligence." 

"  Do  you  understand  V  Two  seats,  diligence,  Simplon, 
morning.  Will  you  get  them  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yaas !  morning,  diligence.     Yaas,  sirr." 

u  Hang  the  fellow  1  W  here  is  the  office?"  And  the 
gentleman  left  the  spry  little  waiter  bobbing  about  in  the 
middle  of  the  street,  speaking  English,  but  probably  com- 
prehending nothing  that  was  said  to  him.  I  inquired  the 
way  to  the  office  of  the  conductor  :  it  was  closed,  but 
would  soon  be  open,  and  I  waited;  and  at  length  the 
official,  a  stout  Frenchman,  appeared,  and  I  secured 
places  in  the  interior,  the  only  ones  to  be  had  to  Visp. 
I  had  seen  a  diligence  at  the  door  with  three  places  in 
the  coupe,  and  one  perched  behind;  no  banquette.  The 
office  is  brightly  lighted;  people  are  waiting  to  secure 
places;  there  is  the  usual  crowd  of  loafers,  men  and 
women,  and  the  Frenchman  sits  at  his  desk.  Enter  the 
American. 

"  I  want  two  places  in  coupe*,  in  the  morning.  Or 
banquette.  Two  places,  diligence."  The  official  waves 
him  of!',  and  says  something. 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  " 

"He  tells  you  to. sit  down  on  that  bench  till  he  la 
ready.** 


68          THE  MAN  WHO  SPEAKS  ENGLISH. 

Soon  the  Frenchman  has  run  over  his  big  way-bills,  and 
turns  to  us. 

"I  want  two  places  in  the  diligence,  coupe,"  &c.,  &c., 
says  the  American. 

This  remark  being  lost  on  the  official,  I  explain  to 
him  as  well  as  I  can  what  is  wanted,  at  first,  —  two  places 
in  the  coupe. 

"  One  is  taken,"  is  his  reply. 

'*  The  gentleman  will  take  two,"  I  said,  having  in  mind 
the  diligence  in  the  yard,  with  three  places  in  the  coupe. 

"  One  is  taken,"  be  repeats. 

"  Then  the  gentleman  will  take  the  other  two." 

"  One  is  taken ! "  he  cries,  jumping  up  and  smiting  the 
table,  —  "  one  is  taken,  I  tell  you ! " 

"  How  many  are  there  in  the  coupe  ?  " 

"  Two" 

11  Oh !  then  the  gentleman  will  take  the  one  remaining 
in  the  coupe,  and  the  one  on  top." 

So  it  is  arranged.  When  I  come  back  to  the  hotel,  the 
Americans  are  explaining  to  the  lively  waiter  "  who 
speaks  English  "  that  they  are  to  go  in  the  diligence  at 
half-past  five,  and  that  they  are  to  be  called  at  halt-past 
four,  and  have  breakfast.  He  knows  all  about  it, — 
"  Diligence,  half-past  four,  breakfast.  Oh,  yaas  !  "  While 
I  have  been  at  the  diligence-office,  my  companions  have 
secured  rooms,  and  gone  to  them ;  and  I  ask  the  waiter  to 
show  me  to  my  room.  First,  however,  I  tell  him  that  we 
three,  two  ladies  and  myself,  who  came  together,  are 
goin^  in  the  diligence  at  half-past  five,  and  want  to  be 
called,  and  have  breakfast.  Did  he  comprehend  ? 

"  Yaas,"  rolling  his  face  about  on  the  top  of  his  head 
violently.  "  You  three  gentleman  want  breakfast.  What 
you  hare  ?  " 

I  had  told  him  before  what  we  would  have,  and  now  I 
gave  up  all  hope  of  keeping  our  parties  separate  in  his 
mind  ;  so  I  said, — 

4'Five  persons  want  breakfast  at  five  o'clock.  Five 
persons,  five  hours.  Call  all  of  them  at  half-past  four/1 


THE  MAN  WHO  SPEAKS  ENGLISH.         69 

And  1  repeated  it,  and  made  liim  repent  it  in  English 
and  French.  He  then  insisted  on  putting  me  into  the 
room  ot  one  of  the  American  gentlemen;  and  then  lie 
knocked  at  the  door  of  a  lady,  who  cried  out  in  indigna- 
tion at  being  disturbed  j  and*,  finally,  I  found  my  room. 
At  the  door  I  reiterated  the  instructions  tor  the  morn- 
ing; and  he  cheerfully  hade  me  good-night.  But  ho 
almost  immediately  came  buck,  and  poked  in  his  head 
•with, — 

"  Is  you  go  by  de  diligence  ?  " 

*•  Yes.  YOU  stupid." 

In  the  morning  one  of  our  party  was  called  at  half-past 
three,  and  saved  the  rest,  of  us  from  a  like  fate;  and  we 
were  not  aroused  at  all,  but  woke  time  enough  to  get 
down  and  find  the  diligence  nearly  ready,  and  no  break- 
fast, but  *•  the  man  who  spoke  English"  as  lively  as  ever. 
And  we  had  a  breakfast  brought  out,  so  filthy  in  all  re- 
spects that  nobody  could  eat  it.  Fortunately,  there  was 
not  time  to  seriously  try ;  but  we  paid  for  it,  and  departed. 
The  two  American  gentlemen  sat  in  front  of  the  house, 
waiting.  The  lively  waiter  had  called  them  at  half-past 
three,  —  for  the  railway  train,  instead  of  the  diligence; 
and  they  had  their  wretched  breakfast  early.  They  will 
remember  the  funny  adventure  with  "  the  man  who  speaks 
English,"  and,  no  doubt,  unite  with  us  in  warmly  com- 
mending the  Hotel  Lion  d'Or  at  Sion  as  the  nastiest  inn 
in  Switzerland. 


A  WALK  TO   THE  GORNER-GRAT. 

A  1  THEN  one  leaves  the  dusty  Rhone  Valley,  and 
V  V  turns  southward  from  Visp,  he  plunges  into  the  * 
wildest  and  most  savage  part  of  Switzerland,  and  pene- 
trates the  heart  of  the  Alps.  The  valley  is  scarcely 
more  than  a  narrow  gorge,  with  high  precipices  on 
either  side,  through  which  the  turbid  and  rapid  Visp 
tears  along  at  a  furious  rate,  boiling  and  leaping  in  foam 
over  its  rocky  bed,  and  nearly  as  large  as  the  Rhone  at 
the  junction.  From  Visp  to  St.  Nicolaus,  twelve  miles, 
there  is  only  a  mule-path,  but  a  very  good  one,  winding 
along  on  the  slope,  sometimes  high  up,  and  again  de- 
scending to  cross  the  stream,  at  first  by  vineyards  and 
high  stone  walls,  and  then  on  the  edges  of  precipices, 
but  always  romantic  and  wild.  It  is  noon  when  we  set 
out  from  Visp,  in  true  pilgrim  fashion,  and  the  sun  is  at 
first  hot ;  but  as  we  slowly  rise  up  the  easy  ascent,  we 
get  a  breeze,  and  forget  the  heat  in  the  varied  charms 
of  the  walk. 

Every  thing  for  the  use  of  the  upper  valley  and 
Zermatt,  now  a  place  of  considerable  resort,  must  be 
carried  by  porters,  or  on  horseback;  and  we  pass  or 
meet  men  and  women,  sometimes  a  dozen  of  them 
together,  laboring  along  under  the  long,  heavy  bas- 
kets, broad  at  the  top  and  coming  nearly  to  a  point 
below,  which  are  universally  used  here  for  carrying 
every  thing.  The  tubs  for  transporting  water  are  of  the 
same  sort.  There  is  no  level  ground,  but  every  foot  is 
cultivated.  High  up  on  the  sides  of  the  precipices,  . 
70 


A   WALK  TO  THE  GORNER-GRAT.  71 

where  it  seems  impossible  for  ;i  noat  to  cliinl),  are  vine- 
yanN  and  houses,  and  even  villages,  hunjr  on  slopes, 
nearly  up  lo  tin-  clouds,  and  with  no  visible  way  of  com- 
municalii  n  with  the  rest  of  the  world. 

In  two  hours'  time  wo  are  at  Stalden.  a  village 
perched  upon  a  rocky  promontory,  at  the  junction  of  the, 
valleys  of  the  Saas  and  the  Visp,  with  a  church  and 
white  tower  conspicuous  from  afar.  We  cliinl)  up  to  the 
terrace  in  front  of  it.  on  our  way  into  the  town.  A 
Beedy-looking  priest  is  pacing  up  and  down,  taking  the, 
fresh  bree/e,  his  broad-brimmed,  shabby  hat  held  down 
upon  the  wall  bv  a  b'm;  stone.  His  clothes  are  worn 
threadbare:  and  he  looks  as  thin  and  poor  as  a  Method- 
ist minister  in  a  stony  town  at  home,  on  three  hundred 
a  \ear.  He  politely  returns  our  salutation,  and  we  walk 
on.  Nearly  all  the  priests  in  this  region  look  wretch- 
edly poor. —  as  poor  as  the  people.  Through  crooked,  nar- 
row streets,  wall  houses  overhanging  and  thrustini;-  out 
corners  and  Cables,  houses  with  stables  below,  and  quaint 
carvings  and  odd  little  windows  above,  —  the  panes  of 
hexagons,  so  that  the  windows  looked  like  sections 
of  honeycomb,  —  we  found  our  way  to  the  inn,  a  many- 
storied  chalet,  with  stairs  on  the  outside,  stone  floors  in  the 
upper  passages,  and  no  end  of  queer  rooms;  built  ri^ht 
in  the  midst  of  other  houses  as  odd,  decorated  with  Ger- 
man-text carving,  from  the  windows  of  which  the  occu- 
pants could  look  in  upon  us,  if  they  had  cared  to  do  so; 
but  they  did  not.  They  seem  little  interested  in  any 
tiring;  and  no  wonder,  with  their  hard  fi«;ht  with  Nature. 
Below  is  a  wine-shop,  with  a  little  side  booth,  in  which 
some  German  travellers  sit  drinking  their  wine,  and 
sputtering  away  in  harsh  gutturals.  The  inn  is  very 
neat  in-ide.  and  we  are  well  served.  Stalden  is  In-ill ; 
but  away  above  it  on  the  opposite  side  is  a  village  on 
the  steep  slope,  with  a  slender  white,  spire  that  rivals 
H>:ne  of  the  snowy  needles.  Stalden  is  hi;j;h,  but  the 
hill  on  which  it  stands  i>  rich  in  urass.  The  secret  of 
the  fertile  meadows  is  the  most  thorough  irriiratiouv 


72  A   WA£K  TO  THE  GORNER-GRAT. 

Water  is  carried  along  the  banks  from  the  river,  and  dis- 
tributed by  numerous  sluiceways  below ;  and  above  the 
little  mountain  streams  are  brought  where  they  are 
needed  by  artificial  channels.  Old  men  and  women  in 
the  fields  were  constantly  changing  the  direction  of  the 
currents.  All  the  inhabitants  appeared  to  be  porters : 
women  were  transporting  on  their  backs  baskets  full  of 
soil ;  hay  was  being  backed  to  the  stables ;  burden-bearers 
were  coming  and  going  upon  the  road :  we  were  told 
that  there  are  only  three  horses  in  the  place.  There  is 
a  pleasant  girl  who  brings  us  luncheon  at  the  inn ;  but 
the  inhabitants  for  the  most  part  are  as  hideous  as  those 
we  see  all  day :  some  have  hardly  the  shape  of  human 
beings,  and  they  all  live  in  the  most  filthy  manner  in  the 
dirtiest  habitations.  A  chalet  is  a  sweet  thing  when  you 
buy  a  little  model  of  it  at  home. 

After  we  leave  Stalden,  the  walk  becomes  more  pic- 
turesque, the  precipices  are  higher,  the  gorges  deeper.  It 
required  some  engineering  to  carry  the  footpath  round 
the  mountain  buttresses  and  over  the  ravines.  Soon  the 
village  of  Enid  appears  on  the  right,  —  a  very  considerable 
collection  of  brown  houses,  and  a  shining  white  church- 
spire,  above  woods  and  precipices  and  apparently  un- 
scalable heights,  on  a  green  spot  which  seems  painted 
on  the  precipices;  with  nothing  visible  to  keep  the 
whole  from  sliding  down,  down,  into  the  gorge  of  the 
Visp.  Switzerland  may  not  have  so  much  population  to 
the  square  mile  as  some  countries ;  but  she  has  a  popula- 
tion to  some  of  her  square  miles  that  would  astonish 
some  parts  of  the  earth's  surface  elsewhere.  Farther 
on,  we  saw  a  faint,  zigzag  footpath,  that  we  conjectured 
led  to  Emd;  but  it  might  lead  up  to  heaven.  All  day 
we  had  been  solicited  for  charity  by  squalid  little  chil- 
dren, who  kiss  their  nasty  little  paws  at  us,  and  ask  ibr 
centimes.  The  children  of  Emd,  however,  did  not 
trouble  us.  It  must  be  a  serious  affair  if  they  ever  roll 
out  of  bed. 

Late  in  the  afterno  m  thunder  began  to  tumble  about 


A   WALK  JO  THE  GORNER-GRAT.          73 

the  hills,  and  clouds  snatched  away  from  our  sMit  the 
enow  peaks  at  the  cud  of  the  valley;  and  at,  length  the 
rain  1'cll  on  those  who  had  ju-t  arrived  and  on  the  un- 
just. We  took  refuge  from  the  hardest  ot  it  in  ;i  lonely 
diak-t  hi<_rh  up  on  the  hillside-,  where  a  roughly-dressed, 
frow/v  Swiss,  who  spoke  had  (lermau,  and  said  he  was 
a  schoolmaster,  gave  us  a  bench  in  the  shed  of  his  school- 
room. He  had  only  two  pupils  in  attendance,  and  I  did 
not  get  a  very  favorable,  impression  of  this  high  school. 
Its  master  quite  overcame  us  with  thanks  when  we  gave 
him  a  few  centimes  on  leaving.  It  still  ruined,  and  we 
arrived  in  St.  Nicolaus  quite  dnmp. 

There  is  a  decent  road  from  St.  Nicolaus  to  Zermatt, 
over  which  go  wagons  without  springs.  The  scenery  is 
constantly  grander  as  we  ascend.  The  day  is  not 
wholly  clear;  but  high  on  our  right  are  the  vast  snow- 
fields  of  the  Weishorn,  and  out  of  the  very  clouds  near 
it  seems  to  pour  the  Bies  Glacier.  In  front  are  the 
splendid  Briethorn,  with  its  white,  round  summit;  the 
black  Riffelhorn  ;  the  sharp  peak  of  the  little  Matter- 
horn  ;  and  at  last  the  giant  Matterhorn  itself  rising  before, 
ns,  the  most  finished  and  impressive  single  mountain  in 
Switzerland.  Not  so  high  as  Mont  Blanc  by  a  thousand 
feet,  it  appears  immense  in  its  isolated  position  and  its 
slender  aspiration.  It  is  a  huge  pillar  of  rock,  with 
sharply-cut  edges,  rising  to  a  defined  point,  dusted  with 
snow,  so  that  the  rock  is  only  here  and  there  revealed. 
To  ascend  it,  seems  as  impossible  as  to  go  up  the  Column 
of  Luxor;  and  one  can  believe  that  the  gentlemen  who 
lir>t  attempted  it  in  1864,  and  lost  their  lives,  did  fall 
four  thousand  feet  before  their  bodies  rested  on  the 
glacier  below. 

\V<-  did  not  stay  at  Zermatt,  but  pushed  on  for  the 
hotel  on  the  top  of  the  RlfFelberg,  —  a  very  stiff  and  tire- 
some climb  of  about  three  hours,  an  unending  pull  up  a 
Btony  footpath.  Within  an  hour  of  the  top,  and  when 
the  white  hotel  is  in  sight  above  the  /i.^/ag  on  the 
breast  of  the  precipice,  we  reach  a  green  and  wide-spread 


74  A  WALK  TO  THE  GOkNER-GRAT. 

Alp,  where  hundreds  of  cows  are  feeding,  watched  b^ 
two  forlorn  women,  —  the  "  milkmaids  all  forlorn  "  of 
poetry.  At  the  rude  chalets  we  stop,  and  get  draughts 
of  rich,  sweet  cream.  As  we  wind  up  the  slope,  the 
tinkling  of  multitudinous  bells  from  the  herd  comes  to 
us,  which  is  also  in  the  domain  of  poetry.  All  the  way 
up,  we  have  found  wild-flowers  in  the  greatest  profusion  ; 
and  the  higher  we  ascend,  the  more  exquisite  is  their 
color  and  the  more  perfect  their  form.  There  are  pan- 
sies ;  gentians  of  a  deeper  blue  than  flower  ever  was 
before;  forget-me-nots,  a  pink  variety  among  them  ;  vio- 
lets, the  Alpine  rose  and  the  Alpine  violet ;  delicate  pink 
flowers  of  moss ;  harebells ;  and  quantities  for  which  we 
know  no  names,  more  exquisite  in  shape  and  color  than 
the  choicest  products  of  the  greenhouse.  Large  slopes 
are  covered  with  them,  —  a  brilliant  show  to  the  eye,  arid 
most  pleasantly  beguiling  the  way  of  its  tediousness. 
As  high  as  I  ascended,  I  still  found  some  of  these  delicate 
flowers,  the  pink  moss  growing  in  profusion  amongst  the 
rocks  of  the  Gorner-Grat,  and  close  to  the  snow-drifts. 

The  inn  on  the  Riffelberg  is  nearly  eight  thousand 
feet  high,  —  almost  two  thousand  feet  above  the  hut  on 
Mount  Washington ;  yet  it  is  not  so  cold  and  desolate  as 
the  latter.  Grass  grows  and  flowers  bloom  on  its  smooth 
upland,  and  behind  it  and  in  front  of  it  are  the  snow- 
peaks.  That  evening  we  essayed  the  Gorner-Grat,  a 
rocky  ledge  nearly  ten  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  sea ;  but  after  a  climb  of  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  a 
good  view  of  Monte  Rosa  and  the  glaciers  and  peaks  of 
that  range,  we  were  prevented  from  reaching  the  sum- 
mit, and  driven  back  by  a  sharp  storm  of  hail  and  rain. 
The  next  morning  I  started  for  the  Gorner-Grat  again, 
at  four  o'clock.  The  Matterhorn  lifted  its  huge  bulk 
sharply  against  the  sky,  except  where  fleecy  clouds 
lightly  draped  it  and  fantastically  blew  about  it.  As  I 
ascended,  and  turned  to  look  at  it,  its  beautifully-cut 
peak  had  caught  the  first  ray  of  the  sun,  and  burned 
with  a  rosy  glow.  Some  great  clouds  drilled  high  in 


A  WALK  TO  THE  GORNER-GRAT.  75 

the  air:  the  summits  of  the  l>rci  thorn,  tlio  Lyscamm, 
and  their  companions,  lay  cold  and  white;  hut  the  snow 
down  their  sides  had  a  tinuv  of  pink.  \Vlieu  1 
upon  tin;  summit,  of  the  Gorncr-(  Jrat,  the  two  prominent 
silver  peaks  of  Monte  Kosa  were  just  touched  with  the 
sun,  and  its  great  snow-fields  were  visible  to  the  glacier 
at  its  base.  The  Gorner-Grat  is  a  rounded  ridge  of 
rock,  entirely  encircled  by  glaciers  and  snow-peaks. 
The  panorama  from  it  is  unexcelled  in  Switzerland. 

Returning  down  the  rocky  steep,  I  descried,  solitary 
in  that  great  waste  of  rock  and  snow,  the  form  of  a  lady 
whom  I  supposed  I  had  left  sleeping  at  the  inn,  over- 
come with  the  fatigue  of  yesterday's  tram]).  Lured  on 
by  the  apparently  short  distance  to  the  back-bone  of  the 
ridire.  she  had  climbed  the  rocks  a  mile  or  more  above 
the  hotel,  and  come  to  meet  me.  She  also  had  seen  the 
great  peaks  lift  themselves  out  of  the  gray  dawn,  and 
Slonte  Rosa  catch  the  first  rays.  We  stood  a  while 
together  to  see  how  jocund  day  ran  hither  and  thither 
along  the  mountain-tops,  until  the  light  was  all  abroad, 
and  then  silently  turned  downward,  as  one  goes  from  a 
mount  of  devotion. 


THE  BATHS   OF  LEUK. 

IN  order  to  make  the  pass  of  the  Gemmi,  it  is  necessary 
to  go  through  the  Baths  of  Leuk.  The  ascent  from 
the  Rhone  bridge  at  Susten  is  full  of  interest,  affording 
fine  views  of  the  valley,  which  is  better  to  look  at  than 
to  travel  through,  and  bringing  you  almost  immediately 
to  the  old  town  of  Leuk,  a  queer,  old,  towered  place, 
perched  on  a  precipice,  with  the  oddest  inn,  and  a  notice 
posted  up  to  the  effect,  that  any  one  who  drives  through 
its  steep  streets  faster  than  a  walk  will  be  fined  five 
francs.  I  paid  nothing  extra  for  a  fast  walk.  The  road, 
which  is  one  of  the  best  in  the  country,  is  a  wonderful 
piece  of  engineering,  spanning  streams,  cut  in  rock, 
rounding  precipices,  following  the  wild  valley  of  the 
Dala  by  many  a  winding  and  zigzag. 

The  Baths  of  Leuk,  or  Loeche-les-Bains,  or  Leuker- 
bad,  is  a  little  village  at  the  very  head  of  the  valley, 
over  four  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  overhung  by 
the  perpendicular  walls  of  the  Gemmi  which  rise  on  all 
Bides,  except  the  south,  on  an  average  of  two  thousand 
feet  above  it.  There  is  a  nest  of  brown  houses,  clus- 
tered together  like  bee-hives,  into  which  the  few  inhabit- 
ants creep  to  hibernate  in  the  long  winters,  and  several 
shops,  grand  hotels,  and  bathing-houses  open  for  the 
season.  Innumerable  springs  issue  out  of  this  green, 
sloping  meadow  among  the  mountains,  some  of  them 
icy  cold,  but  over  twenty  of  them  hot,  and  seasoned 
with  a  great  many  disagreeable  sulphates,  carbonates, 
and  oxides,  and  varying  in  temperature  from  ninety-five 
76 


THE  BA  THS  OF  LEUK.  77 

to  one  hundred  and  twenty-three  decrees  Fahrenheit. 
Italians,  French,  and  Swi.-s  resort  here  in  great  numbers 
to  take  the  baths,  which  are  supposed  t«»  he  very  effica- 
cious tor  rheumat  ism  and  cntaneous  affections.  Doubt- 
less many  of  them  do  up  their  bathing  ibr  the  year  while 
here;  and  they  may  need  no  more  alter  scalding  and 
soaking  in  tliis  water  for  a  couple  of  months. 

Uelbre  we  reached  the  hotel,  we  turned  aside  into  ono 
of  the  bath-houses.  We  stood  inhaling  a  sickly  steam 
in  a  large,  rinse  hall,  which  was  wholly  occupied  by  a 
Inure  vat,  across  whicli  low  ])art  it  ions,  with  bridges,  ran, 
dividing  it  into  four  compartments.  \Yhcn  we  entered, 
we-  were  a-sailed  with  yells,  in  many  languages,  and 
howls  in  the  common  tongue,  as  if  all  the  fiends  of  the 
pit  had  broken  loose.  We  took  oil' our  hats  in  obedience 
to  the  demand;  but  the  clamor  did  not  wholly  subside, 
and  was  mingled  with  singing  and  horrible  laughter. 
Floating  about  in  each  vat,  we  at  first  saw  twenty  or 
thirty  human  heads.  The  women  could  be  distinguished 
from  the  men  by  the  manner  of  dressing  the  hair.  Each 
wore  a  loose  woollen  gown.  Each  had  a  little  table 
floating  before  him  or  her,  which  he  or  she  pushed  about 
at  pleasure.  One  wore  a  hideous  mask  ;  another  kept 
diving  in  the  opaque  pool  and  coming  up  to  blow,  like 
the  hippopotamus  in  the  Zoological  Gardens  ;  some  were 
taking  a  lunch  from  their  tables,  others  playing  chess; 
some  sitting  on  the  benches  round  the  edges,  with  only 
heads  out  of  water,  as  doleful  as  owls,  while  others 
roamed  about,  engaged  in  the  game  of  spattering  with 
their  comrades,  and  sang  and  shouted  at  the  top  of  their 
voices.  The  people  in  this  bath  were  said  to  be  second 
class;  but  they  looked  as  well  and  behaved  better  than 
those  of  the  first  class,  whom  we  saw  in  the  establish- 
ment at  our  hotel  afterward. 

It  may  be  a  valuable  scientific  fact,  that  the  water  in 
these  vats,  in  which  people  of  all  sexes,  all  diseases,  and 
all  nations  spend  so  many  hours  of  the  twenty-four,  ia 
changed  once  a  day.  The  temperature  at  which  the 


78  THE  BA  THS  OF  LEUK. 

bath  is  given  is  ninety-eight.  The  water  is  let  in  at 
night,  and  allowed  to  cool.  At  five  in  the  morning,  tho 
bathers  enter  it,  and  remain  until  ten  o'clock,  —  five  hours, 
having  breakfast  served  to  them  on  the  floating  tables, 
"  as  they  sail,  as  they  sail."  They  then  have  a  respite 
till  two,  and  go  in  till  five.  Eight  hours  in  hot  water  1 
Nothing  can  be  more  disgusting  than  the  sight  of  these 
baths.  Gustave  Dore  must  have  learned  here  how  to 
make  those  ghostly  pictures  of  the  lost  floating  about  in 
the  Stygian  pools,  in  his  illustrations  of  the  Inferno  ; 
and  the  rocks  and  cavernous  precipices  may  have  enabled 
him  to  complete  the  picture.  On  what  principle  cures 
are  effected  in  these  filthy  vats,  I  could  not  learn.  I 
have  a  theory,  that,  where  so  many  diseases  meet  and 
mingle  in  one  swashing  fluid,  they  neutralize  each  other. 
It  may  be  that  the  action  is  that  happily  explained  by 
one  of  the  Hibernian  bathmen  in  an  American  water- 
cure  establishment.  "  You  see,  sir,"  said  he,  "  that  the 
shock  of  the  water  unites  with  the  electricity  of  the  sys- 
tem, and  explodes  the  disease."  I  should  think  that 
the  shock  to  one's  feeling  of  decency  and  cleanliness,  at 
these  baths,  would  explode  any  disease  in  Europe.  But, 
whatever  the  result  may  be,  I  am  not  sorry  to  see  so 
many  French  and  Italians  soak  themselves  once  a  year. 
Out  of  the  bath  these  people  seem  to  enjoy  life. 
There  is  a  long  promenade,  shaded  and  picturesque, 
which  they  take  at  evening,  sometimes  as  far  as  the  Lad- 
ders, eight  of  which  are  fastened,  in  a  shackling  manner, 
to  the  perpendicular  rocks,  —  a  high  and  somewhat  dan- 
gerous ascent  to  the  village  of  Albinen,  but  undertaken 
constantly  by  peasants  with  baskets  on  their  backs.  It 
is  in  winter  the  only  mode  Leukerbad  has  of  communi- 
cating with  the  world  ;  and  in  summer  it  is  the  only  way 
of  reaching  Albinen,  except  by  a  long  journey  down  the 
Dala  and  up  another  valley  and  height.  The  bathers 
were  certainly  very  lively  and  social  at  taWe-d'hote, 
where  we  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  some  hundred  of 
them,  dressed.  It  was  presumed  that  the  baths  were  the 


THE  BA  TIIS  OF  LEUK.  79 

Fuhject  of  the  entortainini:  conv  rsation ;  for  I  read  in  a 
charming  little  work  which  sets  l<>rth  the  delight*  of 
Leuk,  that  La  ponswe  forms  the  staple  of  most  of  the 
talk.  Lti  />"?/»<>,  ur,  as  this  hook  poetically  calls  it, 
"  that  daughter  of  the  waters  of  Louche," — "that  eruption 
of  which  we  have  already  spoken,  and  which  proves  tho 

action  of  the  baths  upon  the  skin,"  —  becomes  the  object, 

and  often  the  end,  of  all  conversation.  And  it  gives 
specimens  of  this  pleasant  converse,  as  :  — 

"  Comment  va  votrc  ponssee  V  " 

u  Ave/-vons  la  pou- 

"  Je  snis  en  pleine  poussee  !  " 

"  Ma  ])onssee  s\->t  iort  hien  passee  !  *' 

Indeed,  says  this  entertaining  tract,  sans  poussce,  ono 
would  not  he  ahle  to  hold,  at  table  or  in  the  salon,  with 
a  neurhhor  of  either  sex,  the,  least  conversation.  Fur- 
ther, it  is  hy  "  Lrrace  a  la  poussee  "  that  one  arrives  at 
those  intimacies  which  are  the  characteristics  of  the  baths. 
Blessed,  then,  be  Lapoussee,  which  renders  possible  such 
a  hinh  society  and  such  select  and  entertaining  conver- 
sation !  Long  may  the  bathers  of  Leuk  live  to  soak  and 
converse  I  In  the  morning,  when  we  departed  for  tho 
ascent  of  the  Gemmi,  we  passed  one  of  the  bathing- 
houses.  1  fancied  that  a  hot  steam  issued  out  of  the 
crevices;  from  within  came  a  discord  of  singing  and 
caterwauling ;  and,  as  a  door  swung  open,  I  saw  that  the 
heads  floating  about  on  the  turbid  tide  were  eating 
breakfast  from  the  swimming  tables. 


OVER  THE   GEMMI. 

I  SPENT  some  time,  the  evening  before,  studying  the 
face  of  the  cliff  we  were  to  ascend,  to  discover  the 
path;  but  J  could  only  trace  its  zigzag  beginning. 
When  we  came  to  the  base  of  the  rock,  we  found  a  way 
cut,  a  narrow  path,  most  of  the  distance  hewn  out  of  the 
rock,  winding  upward  along  the  face  of  the  precipice. 
The  view,  as  one  rises,  is  of  the  break-neck  description. 
The  way  is  really  safe  enough,  even  on  mule-back,  as- 
oending ;  but  one  would  be  foolhardy  to  ride  down.  We 
met  a  lady  on  the  summit  who  was  about  to  be  carried 
down  on  a  chair.;  and  she  seemed  quite  to  like  the  mode 
of  conveyance  :  she  had  harnessed  her  husband  in  tem- 
porarily for  one  of  the  bearers,  which  made  it  still  more 
jolly  for  her.  When  we  started,  a  cloud  of  mist  hung 
over  the  edge  of  the  rocks.  As  we  rose,  it  descended 
to  meet  us,  and  sunk  below,  hiding  the  valley  and  its 
houses,  which  had  looked  like  Swiss  toys  from  our  height. 
When  we  reached  the  summit,  the  mist  came  boiling  up 
after  us,  rising  like  a  thick  wall  to  the  sky,  and  hiding 
all  that  great  mountain  range,  the  Vallais  Alps,  from 
which  we  had  come,  and  which  we  hoped  to  see  from 
this  point.  Fortunately,  there  were  no  clouds  on  the 
other  side,  and  we  looked  down  into  a  magnificent  rocky 
basin,  encircled  by  broken  and  over-topping  crags  and 
snow-fields,  at  the  bottom  of  which  was  a  green  lake. 
It  is  one  of  the  wildest  of  scenes. 

An  hour  from  the  summit,  we  came  to  a  green  Alp, 
where  a  herd  of  cows  were  feeding;  and  in  the  midst  of 
80 


OVER  THE  GEM  ML  81 

it  were  three  or  four  dirty  cJinIcf>\  when*  pigs,  chickens, 
cattle,  and  animals  constructed  very  much  like  human 
B,  lived  ;  yet  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  theso 
C/Htlels.  lor  we  had  excellent  cream  there.  \Ve  had,  on 
the  way  down,  line  views  of  the  snowy  Altels,  the  Rinder- 
horn.  the  Fin>ter-Aarhorn. —  a  deep  valley  which  enor- 
mous precipices  guard,  hut  which  avalanches  nevertheless 
invade.  —  and,  farther  on,  of  the  Bliimlisalp,  with  its  sum- 
mit of  crystalline  whiteness.  The  descent  to  Kanderstcg 
is  very  rapid,  and  in  a  rain  slippery.  This  village  is  a 
resort  tor  arti>ts  lor  its  splendid  views  of  the  ran  ire  wo 
hail  crossed:  it  stands  at  the  <_rate  of  the  mountains. 
From  there  to  the  Lake  of  Tliuii  is  a  delightful  drive,— 
a  rich  country,  with  handsome  cottages  and  a  charming 
landscape,  even  if  the  pyramidal  Niesen  did  not  lift  up 
ven  thousand  feet  on  the  edge  of  the  lake.  So, 
through  a  smiling  land,  and  in  the  sunshine  after  the 
rain,  we  come  to  Spiez,  and  find  ourselves  at  a  little 
hotel  on  the  slope,  overlooking  town  and  lake  and  moun- 
tains 

Spiez  is  not  large  :  indeed,  its  few  houses  are  nearly  all 
picturesquely  grouped  upon  a  narrow  rib  of  land  which 
is  thrust  into  the  lake  on  purpose  to  make  the  loveliest 
picture  in  the  world.  There  is  the  old  castle,  with  its 
many  slim  spires  and  its  square-peaked  roofed  tower ; 
the  slender-steepled  church ;  a  fringe  of  old  houses  below 
on  the  lake,  one  overhanging  towards  the  point ;  and  the 
promontory,  finished  by  a  willow  drooping  to  the  water. 
JVyoiid,  in  hazy  light,  over  the  lucid  green  of  the  lake, 
are  mountains  whose  masses  of  rock  seein  soft  and  sculp- 
tured. To  the  right,  at  the  foot  of  the  lake,  tower  the 
great  snow  mountains,  —  the  cone  of  the  Schreckhorn, 
tlie  square  top  of  the  Eigcr,  the  Jungfrau,  just  shoving 
over  the  hills,  and  the  Bliimlisalp  rising  into  heaven  clear 
and  silvery. 

What  can  one  do  in  such  a  spot,  but  swim  in  the  lake, 
lie  on  the  shore,  and  watch  the  passing  steamers  and  the 
changing  light  on  the  mountains  ?  Down  at  the  wharf. 


82  OVER  THE  GEM  MI. 

when  the  small  boats  put  off  for  the  steamer,  one  can 
well  entertain  himself.  The  small  boat  is  an  enormous 
thing,  after  all,  and  propelled  by  two  long,  heavy  sweeps, 
one  of  which  is  pulled,  and  the  other  pushed.  The  labor- 
ing oar  is,  of  course,  pulled  by  a  woman  ;  while  her  hus- 
band stands  up  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  and  gently  dips 
the  other  in  a  gallant  fashion.  There  is  a  boy  there, 
whom  I  cannot  make  out,  — a  short,  square  boy,  with  tas- 
selled  skull-cap,  and  a  face  that  never  changes  its  expres- 
sion, and  never  has  any  expression  to  change ;  he  may 
be  older  than  these  hills ;  he  looks  old  enough  to  be  his 
own  father :  and  there  is  a  girl,  his  counterpart,  who 
might  be,  judging  her  age  by  her  face,  the  mother  of 
both  of  them.  These  solemn  old-young  people  are  quite 
busy  doing  nothing  about  the  wharf,  and  appear  to  be 
afflicted  with  an  undue  sense  of  the  responsibility  of 
life.  There  is  a  beer-garden  here,  where  several  sober 
couples  sit  seriously  drinking  their  beer.  There  are 
some  horrid  old  women,  with  the  parchment  skin  and 
the  disagreeable  necks.  Alone,  in  a  window  of  the  cas- 
tle, sits  a  lady  at  her  work,  who  might  be  the  countess ; 
only,  I  am  sorry,  there  is  no  countess,  nothing  but  a 
frau,  in  that  old  feudal  dwelling.  And  there  is  a  for- 
eigner, thinking  how  queer  it  all  is.  And,  while  he  sits 
there,  the  melodious  bell  in  the  church-tower  rings  its 
evening  song. 


BAVARIA. 


AMERICAN   IMPATIENCE. 

WE  left  Switzerland,  as  we  entered  it,  in  a  rain,  — 
a  kind  of  double  baptism  that  may  have  been 
necessary,  and  was  certainly  not  too  heavy  a  priec  to 
pay  lor  the  privileges  of  the  wonderful  country.  The 
wind  blew  freshly,  and  swept  a  shower  over  the  deck  of 
the  little  steamboat,  on  board  of  which  we  stepped  from 
the  shabby  little  pier  and  town  of  Romanshorn.  After 
the  other  Swiss  lakes,  Constance  is  tame,  except  at  the 
southern  end,  beyond  which  rise  the  Appenzell  range 
and  the  wooded  peaks  of  the  Bavarian  hills.  Through 
the  dash  of  rain,  and  under  the  promise  of  a  magnificent 
rainbow,  —  rainbows  don't  mean  anything  in  Switzer- 
land, and  have  no  office  as  weather-prophets,  except  to 
assure  you,  that,  as  it  rains  to-day,  so  it  will  rain  to-mor- 
row, —  we  skirted  the  lower  bend  of  the  lake,  and  at  twi- 
light sailed  into  the  little  harbor  of  Lindau,  through  the 
narrow  entrance  between  the  piers,  on  one  of  which  is  a 
small  lighthouse,  and  on  the  other  sits  upright  a  gigantic 
stone  lion,  —  a  fine  enough  figure  of  a  Bavarian  lion,  but 
with  a  comical,  wide-awake,  and  expectant  expression  of 
countenance,  as  if  he  might  bark  right  out  at  any  minute, 
and  become  a  dog.  Yet  in  the  moonlight,  shortly  after- 
war  1,  the  lion  looked  very  grand  and  stately,  as  he  sat 
reirardmg  the  softly-plashing  waves,  and  the  high,  drift- 
ing clouds,  and  the  old  Roman  tower  by  the  bridge, 
which  connects  the  Island  of  Lindau  with  the  mainland, 
and  thinking  perhaps,  if  stone  lions  ever  do  think,  of 
the  time  when  Iloinan  galleys  sailed  on  Lake  Constance, 

85 


86  AMERICAN  IMP  A  TIENCE. 

and  when  Lindau  was  an  imperial  town  with  a  thriving 
trade. 

On  board  the  little  steamer  was  an  American,  accom- 
panied by  two  ladies,  and  travelling,  I  thought,  for  their 
gratification,  who  was  very  anxious  to  get  on  faster  than 
he  was  able  to  do,  —  though  why  any  one  should  desire  to 
go  fast  in  Europe  I  do  not  know.  One  easily  falls  into 
the  habit  of  the  country, —  to  take  things  easily,  to  <ro 
when  the  slow  German  fates  will,  and  not  to  worry  one's 
self  beforehand  about  times  and  connections.  But  the 
American  was  in  a  fever  of  impatience,  desirous,  if  possi- 
ble, to  get  on  that  night.  I  knew  he  was  from  the  Land 
of  the  Free  by  a  phrase  I  heard  him  use  in  the  cars  :  he. 
said,  "  I'll  bet  a  dollar."  Yet  I  must  flatter  myself  that 
Americans  do  not  always  thus  betray  themselves.  I 
happened,  on  the  Isle  of  Wight,  to  hear  a  bland  land- 
lord "  blow  up  "  his  glib-tongued  son  because  the  latter 
had  not  driven  a  stiffer  bargain  with  us  for  the  hire  of  a 
carriage  round  the  island. 

"  Didn't  you  know  they  were  Americans  ?  "  asks  the 
irate  father.  "  I  knew  it  at  once." 

"  No,"  replies  young  hopeful :  "  they  didn't  say  guess 
once." 

And  straightway  the  fawning  innkeeper  returns  to 
us,  professing,  with  his  butter-lips,  the  greatest  admira- 
tion of  all  Americans,  and  the  intensest  anxiety  to  serve 
them,  and  all  for  pure  good-will.  The  English  are  even 
more  bloodthirsty  at  sight  of  a  traveller  than  the  Swiss, 
and  twice  as  obsequious.  But  to  return  to  our  Ameri- 
can. He  had  all  the  railway-time  tables  that  he  could 
procure ;  and  Le  was  busily  studying  them,  with  the  de- 
sign of  "  getting  on."  I  heard  him  say  to  his  compan- 
ions, as  he  ransacked  his  pockets,  that  he  was  a  mass  of 
hotel- bills  and  time-tables.  He  confided  to  me  after- 
ward, that  his  wife  and  her  friend  had  got  it  into  their 
heads  that  they  must  go  both  to  Vienna  and  Berlin. 
Was  Berlin  much  out  of  the  way  in  going  from  Vienna 
to  Paris  ?  He  said  they  told  him  it  wasn't.  At  any 


AMERICAN  IMPA  TIEA\  87 

rato,  lit*  must  '.ret  round  at  such  a  date  :  lie  liad  no  timo 
to  spare.  Then,  besides  the  slowm-s  of  '.retting  on, 
there  were  tlie  trunks.  He  lost  a  trunk  in  Swit/erland, 
and  consumed  a  whole  day  in  looking  it  up.  While  the 
steamboat  lay  at  the  wharf  at  llorschaeh,  two  stout  por- 
iine  on  l>oard,  and  shouldered  his  b;*r<_r:v^  to  take, 
it  ashore.  To  his  remonstrances  in  Engli^i  they  paid 
no  heed  ;  and  it  was  some  time  before  they  could  be 
made  to  understand  that  the  trunks  were  to  go  on  to 
Lindau.  ''  There,"  said  he,  "  I  should  have  lost  my 
trunks.  Nobody  understands  what  I  tell  them  :  I  can't 
get  any  information."  Especially  was  he  unable  to  <ret 
any  information  as  to  how  to  *'  get  on."  I  confess  that 
the  restless  American  almost  put  me  into  a  fidget,  and 
revived  the  American  desire  to  "get  on,"  to  take  the 
fast  trains,  make  all  the  connections, —  in  short,  in  the 
handsome  language  of  the  great  West,  to  "  put  her 
through."  When  I  last  saw  our  traveller,  he  was  getting 
his  luggage  through  the  custom-house,  still  undecided 
whether  to  push  on  that  ni^ht  at  eleven  o'clock.  But  I 
forgot  all  about  him  and  his  hurry,  when,  shortly  after, 
we  sat  at  the  table-d'hote  at  the  hotel,  and  the  sedate 
Germans  lit  tbeir  cigars,  some  of  them  before  they  had 
finished  eating,  and  sat  smoking  as  if  there  were  plenty 
of  leisure  for  every  thing  in  this  world. 


A   CITY  OF  COLOR. 

AFTER  a  slow  ride,  of  nearly  eight  hours,  in  what, 
in  Germany,  is  called  an  express  train,  through  a 
rain  and  clouds  that  hid* from  our  view  the  Tyrol  and 
the  Swabian  mountains,  over  a  rolling,  pleasant  country, 
past  pretty  little  railway  station-houses,  covered  with 
vines,  gay  with  flowers  in  the  windows,  and  surrounded 
with  beds  of  flowers,  past  switchmen  in  flaming  scarlet 
jackets,  who  stand  at  the  switches  and  raise  the  hand  to 
the  temple,  and  keep  it  there,  in  a  military  salute,  as  we 
go  by,  we  come  into  old  Augsburg,  whose  Confession  is 
not  so  fresh  in  our  minds  as  it  ought  to  be.  Portions  of 
the  ancient  wall  remain,  and  many  of  the  towers ;  and 
there  are  archways,  picturesquely  opening  from  street  to 
street,  under  several  of  which  we  drive  on  our  way  to  the 
Three  Moors,  a  stately  hostelry  and  one  of  the  oldest  in 
Germany. 

It  stood  here  in  the  year  1500;  and  the  room  is  still 
shown,  unchanged  since  then,  in  which  the  rich  Count 
Fugger  entertained  Charles  V.  The  chambers  are 
nearly  all  immense.  That  in  which  we  are  lodged  is 
large  enough  for  Queen  Victoria ;  indeed,  I  am  glad  to 
say  that  her  sleeping-room  at  St.  Cloud  was  not  half  so 
spacious.  One  feels  either  like  a  count,  or  very  lone- 
some, to  sit  down  in  a  lofty  chamber,  say  thirty-five  feet 
square,  with  little  furniture,  and  historical  and  tragical 
life-size  figures  staring  at  one  from  the  wall-paper.  One 
fears  that  they  may  come  down  in  the  deep  night, 
88 


A  CITY  OF  COLOR.  8$ 

nnd  stand  at  the  bedside, —  those  narrow,  canopied  bed* 
there  in  tin-  distance,  like  the  marble  eoiiclies  in  the 
L'Athedrul.  It  must  lie  a  fearful  thin;:  to  be  ;i  royal  per- 
son, and  dwell  in  a  palace,  with  resounding  rooms  and 
:,  waxed,  inlaid  floors.  At  the  Three  Moo: 
.  visitors'  book,  begun  in  1800,  which  contains  the 
names  ot'  many  noble  and  great  people,  as  well  as  j>oe;s 
and  doctors  and  titled  ladies,  and  much  sentimental 
writing  in  Prcnch.  It  is  my  impression,  from  an  in- 
spection of  the  book,  that  we  are  the  first  until  led 
visitors. 

The  traveller  cannot  but  like  Augsburg  at  once,  for  its 
quaint  houses,  colored  so  diversely  and  yet  harmoniously. 
lu-mains  of  its  former  brilliancy  yet  exist  in  the  frescos 
on  the  outside  of  the  buildings,  some  of  which  an 
bright  in  color,  though  partially  defaced.  Those  on  the, 
House  of  Fii'_r'-ier  have  been  restored,  and  are  very  brave, 
pictures.  These  frescos  give  great  animation  and  life 
to  the  appearance  of  a  street,  and  1  am  glad  to  see  a 
taste  for  them  reviving.  Augsburg  must  have  been  very 
gay  with  them  two  and  three  hundred  years  ago,  when, 
also,  it  was  the  home  of  beautiful  women  of  the  middle 
class,  who  married  princes.  We  went  to  see  the  house 
in  which  lived  the  beautiful  Agnes  Bernauer,  daughter 
of  a  barber,  who  married  Duke  Albert  III.,  of  Bavaria. 
The  house  was  nought,  as  old  Samuel  Pepys  would  say, 
only  a  hiirh  stone  building,  in  a  block  of  such;  but  it  is 
enough  to  make  a  house  attractive  for  centuries  if  a 
pretty  woman  once  looks  out  of  its  latticed  windows,  as 
I  have  no  doubt  Agnes  often  did  when  the  duke  and  his 
retinue  rode  by  in  clanking  armor. 

But  there  is  no  lack  of  reminders  of  old  times.  The 
cathedral,  which  was  begun  betbre  the  Christian  era 
could  express  its  age  with  tour  figures,  has  two  fine  por- 
tals, with  quaint  carving,  and  bronze  doors  of  very  old 
work,  whereon  the  story  of  Eve  and  the  serpent  is  liter- 
ally iiiven.  —  a  representation  of  great  theological,  if  of 
small  artistic  value.  And  there  is  the  old  clock  and 


po  A  CITY  OF  COLOR. 

watch  tower,  which  for  eight  hundred  years  has  enabled 
tiie  Augsburgers  to  keep  the  time  of  day  and  to  look 
out  over  the  plain  for  the  approach  of  an  enemy.  The 
city  is  full  of  tine  bronze  fountains,  some  of  them  of  very 
elaborate  design,  and  adding  a  convenience  and  a  beauty 
to  the  town  which  American  cities  wholly  want.  In  one 
quarter  of  the  town  is  the  Fuggerei,  a  little  city  by 
itself,  surrounded  by  its  own  wall,  the  gates  of  which 
are  shut  at  night,  with  narrow  streets  and  neat  ^little 
houses.  It  was  built  by  Hans  Jacob  Fugger  the  Rich, 
as  long  ago  as  1519,  and  is  still  inhabitated  by  indigent 
Roman- Catholic  families,  according  to  the  intention  of 
its  founder.  In  the  windows  were  lovely  flowers.  I  saw 
in  the  street  several  of  those  mysterious,  short,  old 
women,  —  so  old  and  yet  so  little,  all  body  and  hardly  any 
legs,  who  appear  to  have  grown  down  into  the  ground 
with  advancing  years. 

It  happened  to  be  a  rainy  day,  and  cold,  on  the  30th 
of  July,  when  we  left  Augsburg;  and  the  flat  fields 
through  which  we  passed  were  uninviting  under  the 
gray  light.  Large  flocks  of  geese  were  feeding  on  the 
windy  plains,  tended  by  boys  and  women,  who  are 
the  living  fences  of  this  country.  I  no  longer  wonder  at 
the  number  of  feather-beds  at  the  inns,  under  which  we 
are  apparently  expected  to  sleep  even  in  the  warmest 
nights.  Shepherds  with  the  regulation  crooks,  also  were 
watching  herds  of  sheep.  Here  and  there  a  cluster  of 
red-roofed  houses  were  huddled  together  into  a  village, 
and  in  all  directions  rose  tapering  spires.  Especially  we 
marked  the  steeple  of  Blenheim,  where  Jack  Churchill 
won  the  name  for  his  magnificent  country-seat,  early  in 
the  last  century.  All  this  plain  where  the  silly  geese 
feed  has  been  marched  over  and  fought  over  by  armies 
time  and  again.  We  effect  the  passage  of  the  Danube 
without  difficulty,  and  on  to  Harburg,  a  little  town  of 
little  red  houses,  inhabited  principally  by  Jews,  huddled 
under  a  rocky  ridge,  upon  the  summit  of  which  is  a  pic- 
turesque mediaeval  castle,  with  many  towers  and  turrets, 


A  CIT\  OF  COLOR.  91 

in  as  perfect  preservation  as  \\hen  feudal  fla<_rs  floated 
OM-r  it.  Anil  so  on,  slowly,  with  lonn;  stops  at  many  sta- 
tions, to  <j;ive  opportunity.  I  suppose,  lor  the  honest  pas- 
MMi-ers  to  take  in  supplies  of  beer  and  sausages,  to 
Nuremberg. 


A  CITY   LRING  ON  THE  PAST. 

"VTUREMBERG,  or  Nurnberg,  was  built,  I  believe, 
JLN  about  the  beginning  of  time.  At  least,  in  an  old 
black-letter  history  of  the  city  which  1  have  seen,  illus- 
trated with  powerful  wood-cuts,  the  first  representation 
is  that  of  the  creation  of  the  world,  which  is  immediately 
followed  by  another  of  Nuremberg.  No  one  who  visits 
it  is  likely  to  dispute  its  antiquity.  "  Nobody  ever  goes 
to  Nuremberg  but  Americans,"  said  a  cynical  British 
officer  at  Chamouny ;  "  but  they  always  go  there.  I 
never  saw  an  American  who  hadn't  been  or  was  not 
going  to  Nuremberg."  Well,  I  suppose  they  wish  to  see 
the  oldest-looking,  and,  next  to  a  true  Briton 'on  hi? 
travels,  the  oddest  thing  on  the  Continent.  The  city  lives 
in  the  past  still,  and  on  its  memories,  keeping  its  old 
walls  and  moat  entire,  and  nearly  fourscore  wall-towers, 
in  stern  array.  But  grass  grows  in  the  moat,  fruit-trees 
thrive  there,  and  vines  clamber  on  the  walls.  One  wan- 
ders about  in  the  queer  streets  with  the  feeling  of  being 
transported  back  to  the  Middle  Ages ;  but  it  is  difficult 
to  reproduce  the  impression  on  paper.  Who  can  describe 
the  narrow  and  intricate  ways ;  the  odd  houses  with 
many  little  gables;  great  roofs  breaking  out  from  eaves 
to  ridgepole,  with  dozens  of  dormer-windows;  hanging 
balconies  of  stone,  carved  and  figure-beset,  ornamented 
and  frescoed  fronts;  the  archways,  leading  into  queer 
courts  and  alleys,  and  out  again  into  broad  streets  ;  the 
towers  and  fantastic  steeples ;  and  the  many  old  bridges, 
with  obelisks  and  memorials  of  triumphal  entries  of  con- 
querors and  princes  ? 
92 


A  CITY  LiriXG  ON  THE  PAST.  93 

Tlio  city,  ns  T  s:iiil,  lives  upon  (lie  memory  of  what  it 
lias  been,  and  trades  upon  relics  of  its  former  fame 
AYliat  il  would  liave  l)een  without  Alhrcclit  Diirrr,  and 
Adam  Kraft  tlie  Mom-mason,  and  IVter  Yi<cher  'he, 
bronze-worker,  and  Viet  St<»>s  who  carved  in  wood,  and 
Hans  Sachs  ihe  >hocmaker  and  poet-minstrel,  it  is  dilli- 
cult  to  say.  Their  statues  an-  set  up  in  the.  streets;  their 
works  still  live1  in  the  ehmvhes  and  city  buildings. —  pie- 
tures.  and  groups  in  stone  and  wood;  ami  their  statues, 
in  all  sorts  of  carving,  are  reproduced,  bin'  and  little,  in  all 
the  shop-windows,  for  sale.  So,  literally,  the  city  is  lull 
01  the  memory  of  them;  and  the  hu>iness  of  the  city, 
aside  from  its  mannfaetory  of  endless,  curious  toys,  seems 
to  consist  in  reproducing  them  and  their  immortal  works 
to  sell  to  strangers. 

Other  cities  project  new  things,  and  grow  with  a 
modern  impetus  :  Nuremberg  lives  in  the  past,  and  traf- 
fics on  its  ancient  reputation.  Of  course,  we  went  to  see, 
the  houses  where  these  old  worthies  lived,  and  the  works 
ot  art  they  have  left  behind  them,  —  things  seen  and 
described  by  everybody.  The  stone  carving  about  the 
church-portals  and  on  side  buttresses  is  inexpressibly 
(juaint  and  naive.  The  subjects  are  sacred;  and  with  the 
sacred  is  mingled  the  comic,  here  as  at  Augsburg,  where 
over  one  portal  of  the  cathedral,  with  saints  and  angels, 
monkeys  climb  and  gibber.  A  favorite  subject  is  that 
of  our  Lord  praying  in  the  Garden,  while  the  apostles, 
who  could  not  watch  one  hour,  are  sleeping  in  various 
attitudes  of  stony  comicality.  All  the  stone-cutters  seem 
to  have  tried  their  chisels  on  this  group,  and  there  are 
dozens  of  them.  The  wi.-e  and  luolish  virgins  a!>o  stand 
at  the  church-doors  in  time-stained  stone,  —  the  one 
with  a  pcrked-up  air  of  conscious  virtue,  and  the  other 
with  a  penitent  dejection  that  seems  to  merit  better  treat- 
ment. Over  the  great  portal  of  St.  Lawrence  —  a  mag- 
nificent structure,  with  lolly  twin  spires  and  glorious 
rose-window — is  carved  kt  The  Last  Judgment."  Un- 
derneath, the  dead  are  climbing  out  of  their  stone  coilins ; 


94  A  CITY  LIVING  ON  THE  PAST. 

above  sits  the  Judge,  with  the  attending  angels.  On 
the  right  hand  go  away  the  stiff,  prim  saints,  in  flowing 
robes,  and  with  palms  and  harps,  up  steps  into  heaven, 
through  a  narrow  door  which  St.  Peter  opens  for  them ; 
while  on  the  left  depart  the  wicked,  with  wry  faces  and 
distorted  forms,  down  into  the  stone  flames,  towards 
which  the  Devil  is  dragging  them  by  their  stony  hair. 

The  interior  of  the  Church  of  St.  Lawrence  is  richer 
than  any  other  I  remember,  with  its  magnificent  pil- 
lars of  dark  red  stone,  rising  and  foliating  out  to  form 
the  roof;  its  splendid  windows  of  stained  glass,  glowing 
with  sacred  story ;  a  high  gallery  of  stone  entirely  round 
the  choir,  and  beautiful  statuary  on  every  column.  Here, 
too,  is  the  famous  Sacrament  House  of  honest  old  Adam 
Kraft,  the  most  exquisite  thing  I  ever  saw  in  stone.  The 
color  is  light  gray ;  and  it  rises  beside  one  of  the  dark, 
massive  pillars,  sixty-four  feet,  growing  to  a  point,  which 
then  strikes  the  arch  of  the  roof,  and  there  curls  up  like 
a  vine  to  avoid  it.  The  base  is  supported  by  the  kneel- 
ing figures  of  Adam  Kraft  and  two  fellow-workmen,  who 
labored  on  it  for  four  years.  Above  is  the  Last  Supper, 
Christ  blessing  little  children,  and  other  beautiful  tableaux 
in  stone.  The  Gothic  spire  grows  up  and  around  these, 
now  and  then  throwing  out  graceful  tendrils,  like  a  vine, 
and  seeming  to  be  rather  a  living  plant  than  inanimate 
stone.  The  faithful  artist  evidently  had  this  feeling  for 
it;  for,  as  it  grew  under  his  hands,  he  found  that  it  would 
srrike  the  roof,  or  he  must  sacrifice  something  of  its  grace- 
Jul  proportion.  So  his  loving  and  daring  genius  sug- 
gested the  happy  design  of  letting  it  grow  to  its  curving, 
graceful  completeness. 

He  who  travels  by  a  German  railway  needs  patience 
and  a  full  haversack.  Time  is  of  no  value.  The  rate  of 
speed  of  the  trains  is  so  slow,  that  one  sometimes  has  a 
desire  to  get  out  and  walk,  and  the  stoppages  at  the  sta- 
tions seem  eternal ;  but  then  we  must  remember  that  it 
is  a  long  distance  to  the  bottom  of  a  great  mug  of  beer. 
We  left  Lindau  on  one  of  the  usual  trains  at  half^past 


A  CITY  LIVING  ON  HIE  PAST.  95 

five  in  the  inorninjr,  and  readied  Au_Lrshuri:  at  oneo'dock 
in  the  afternoon  :  tin*  distance  cannot  he  more  than  a 
hundred  miles.  That  is  quicker  thai,  hy  diligence,  and 
one  has  leisure  to  BC€  the-  country  as  he  j(»-,vs  alon-j;. 
There  is  nothing  inure  sedate  than  aderman  train  in 
motion;  nothing  ean  stand  so  dead  still  as  a  (Jcrman 
train  at  a  station.  But  there  are  express  trains.  NYe 
were  on  one  from  Au^shur^  to  Xuremlierir,  and  I  think 
must  have  run  twenty  miles  an  hour.  The  iare  on  the 
express  trains  is  one-fifth  higher  than  on  the  others. 
The  ears  are  all  comfortable  ;  and  the  oflicials,  -u  ho  wear 
a  irood  deal  of  uniform,  are  much  more  civil  and  ohli^inij 
than  oilicials  in  a  country  where  they  do  not  wear  uni- 
form. So,  not  swiftly,  but  saiely  and  in  good-humor,  we 
rode  to  the  capital  of  Bavaria. 


OUTSIDE  ASPECTS  OF   MUNICH. 

I  SAW  yesterday,  on  the  31st  of  August,  in  the 
English  Garden,  dead  leaves  whirling  down  to  the 
ground,  a  too  evident  sign  that  the  summer  weather  is 
going.  Indeed,  it  has  been  sour,  chilly  weather  for  a 
week  now,  raining  a  little  every  day,  and  with  a  very 
autumn  feeling  in  the  air.  The  nightly  concerts  in  the 
beer-gardens  must  have  shivering  listeners,  if  the  bands 
do  not,  as  many  of  them  do,  play  within  doors.  The 
line  of  droschke  drivers,  in  front  of  the  post-office  colon- 
nade, hide  the  red  facings  of  their  coats  under  long  over- 
coats, and  stand  in  cold  expectancy  beside  their  blanketed 
horses,  which  must  need  twice  the  quantity  of  black- 
bread  in  this  chilly  air ;  for  the  horses  here  eat  bread, 
like  people.  I  see  the  drivers  every  day  slicing  up  the 
black  loaves,  and  feeding  them,  taking  now  and  then  a 
mouthful  themselves,  wetting  it  down  with  a  pull  from 
the  mug  of  beer  that  stands  within  reach.  And  lastly  (I 
am  still  speaking  of  the  weather),  the  gay  military  offi- 
cers come  abroad  in  long  cloaks,  to  some  extent  conceal- 
ing their  manly  forms  and  smart  uniforms,  which  I  am 
sure  they  would  not  do,  except  under  the  pressure  of 
necessity. 

Yet  I  think  this  raw  weather  is  not  to  continue.  It  is 
only  a  rough  visit  from  the  Tyrol,  which  will  give  place 
to  kinder  influences.  We  came  up  here  from  hot  Swit- 
zerland at  the  end  of  July,  expecting  to  find  Munich  a 
furnace.  It  will  be  dreadful  in  Munich,  everybody  said. 
So  we  left  Luzerne,  where  it  u..  warm,  not  daring  to 
96 


OUTSIDE  ASPECTS  OF  MUNICH.  97 

Pfay  till  tlu1  expected  rival  sun,  Vicl(»ria  of  Kii^land, 
should  make  the  heat  overpowering,  lint  the  lir>t  week 
of  August  in  Munich  it,  was  delicious  weather,  —  clear, 
sparkliii':,  bracing  air,  with  no  chill  in  it,  and  no  languor 
in  it,  just  as  you  would  say  it,  ou^ht  to  be  on  a  hiidi, 
gravelly  plain,  seventeen  hundred  ieet  above  tli- 
Then  came,  a,  week  of  what  tin*  Miincheners  call  hot 
weather,  with  the  thermometer  up  to  eighty  degrees 
Fahrenheit,  and  the  white  wide  streets  and  -jray  build- 
in -j>  in  a  Mare  of  light ;  since  then,  weather  of  the  most 
\ricertain  sort. 

Munich  needs  the  sunlight.  Not  that  it  cannot  better 
spare  it  than  grimy  London;  for  its  prevailing  eolor  is 
lijht  gray,  and  its  many-tinted  and  frescoed  fronts  1:0  l;-r 
to  relieve  the  most  cheerless  day.  Yet  Munich  attempts 
to  be  an  architectural  reproduction  of  classic  times;  and, 
in  order  to  achieve  any  success  in  this  direction,  it  is 
necessary  to  have  the  blue  heavens  and  golden  sunshine 
of  Greece.  The  old  portion  of  the  city  has  some  remains 
of  the  Gothic,  and  abounds  in  archways  and  rambling 
alleys,  that  suddenly  become  broad  streets,  and  then  a-jain 
contract  to  the  width  of  an  alderman,  and  portions  of 
the  old  wall  and  city  gates;  old  feudal  towers  stand  in 
the  market-place,  and  faded  frescos  on  old  clock-faces 
and  over  archways  speak  of  other  days  of  splendor. 

But  the  Munich  of  to-day  is  as  if  built  to  order,  —  raised 
in  a  day  by  the  command  of  one  man.  It  was  the  old 
King  Ludwig  L,  whose  flower-wreathed  bust  stands  in 
these  days  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Glyptothek,  in  token 
of  his  recent  death,  who  gave  the  impulse  for  all  this, 
though  some  of  the  best  buildings  and  streets  in  the  city 
have  been  completed  by  his  successors.  The  new  city  is 
laid  out  on  a  magnificent  scale  of  distances,  with  wide 
streets,  line,  open  squares,  plenty  of  room  lor  gardens 
both  public  and  private:  and  the  art  buildings  and  art 
monuments  are  well  distributed;  in  fact,  many  a  stately 
building  p^nds  in  such  isolation  that  it  seems  to  ask 
every  pasF,r  what  it  wj*-»  put  there  ibr.  Then,  again^ 


98  OUTSIDE  ASPECTS  OF  MUNICH. 

some  of  the  new  adornments  lack  fitness  of  location  of 
purpose.  At  the  end  of  the  broad,  monotonous  Ludwig 
Strasse,  and  yet  not  at  the  end,  for  the  road  runs  straight 
on  into  the  flat  country  between  rows  of  slender  trees, 
stands  the  Siegesthor,  or  Gate  of  Victory,  an  imitation 
of  the  Constantine  arch  at  Rome.  It  is  surmounted  by  a 
splendid  group  in  bronze,  by  Sch  wan  thaler,  —  Bavaria  in 
her  war-chariot,  drawn  by  four  lions ;  and  it  is  in  itself, 
both  in  its  proportions  and  its  numerous  sculptural  figures 
and  bas-reliefs,  a  fine  recognition  of  the  valor  "  of  the 
Bavarian  army,"  to  whom  it  is  erected.  Yet  it  is  so 
dwarfed  by  its  situation,  that  it  seems  to  have  been  placed 
in  the  middle  of  the  street  as  an  obstruction.  A  walk 
runs  on  each  side  of  it.  The  Propylaeum,  another  mag- 
nificent gateway,  thrown  across  the  handsome  Brienner 
Strasse,  beyond  the  Glyptothek,  is  an  imitation  of  that  on 
the  Acropolis  at  Athens.  It  has  fine  Doric  columns  on 
the  outside,  and  Ionic  within,  and  the  pediment  groups 
are  bas-reliefs,  by  Schwanthaler,  representing  scenes  in 
modern  Greek  history.  The  passage-ways  for  carriages 
are  through  the  side  arches ;  and  thus  the  "  sidewalk  " 
runs  into  the  centre  of  the  street,  and  foot-passers  must 
twice  cross  the  carriage-drive  in  going  through  the  gate. 
Such  things  as  these  give  one  the  feeling  that  art  has 
been  forced  beyond  use  in  Munich ;  and  it  is  increased 
when  one  wanders  through  the  new  churches,  palaces, 
galleries,  and  finds  frescos  so  prodigally  crowded  out  of 
the  way,  and  only  occasionally-opened  rooms  so  over- 
loaded with  them,  and  not  always  of  the  best,  as  to  sacri- 
fice all  effect,  and  leave  one  with  the  sense  that  some 
demon  of  unrest  has  driven  painters  and  sculptors  and 
plasterers,  night  and  day,  to  adorn  the  city  at  a  stroke ; 
at  least,  to  cover  it  with  paint  and  bedeck  it  with  mar- 
bles, and  to  do  it  at  once,  leaving  nothing  for  the  sweet 
growth  and  blossoming  of  time. 

You  see,  it  is  easy  to  grumble,  and  especially  in  a 
cheerful,  open,  light,  and  smiling  city,  crammed  with 
works  of  art,  ancient  and  modern,  its  architecture  a 


OUTSIDE  ASPECTS  OF  MUNICH.  99 

Ftmly  of  all  styles,  and  its  loaminT  beer,  said  by  anti- 
quarians ti)  be  a  good  deal  better  than  tin-  nit-ad  drunk 
in  Odin's  halls,  only  seven  and  a  half  kreu/crs  the 
quart.  Munich  has  so  much,  that  it,  of  comx-,  contain* 
iiuu-h  thai  ran  be  critici-ed.  The.  long,  wide  Lulwir 
I  of  palaces,  —  a  street  built  up  by  tin-  old 
kiiv_r.  and  regarded  by  him  with  threat  pride.  Hut  all 
the  buildings  are  in  the  Romanesque  style,  —  a  repetition 
of  one  another  to  a  monotonous  decree:  only  at  the 
lower  end  arc  there  any  shops  or  shop-windows,  and  a 
more  dreary  promenade  need  not  be  imagined.  It  has 
neither  shade  nor  fountains ;  and  on  a  hot  day  you  can 
see  how  the  sun  would  pour  into  it,  and  blind  the  passers, 
liut  few  ever  walk  there  at  any  time.  A  street  that 
leads  nowhere,  and  has  no  gay  windows,  does  not  attract. 
Toward  the  lower  end,  in  the  Odeon  Platz,  is  the  eques- 
trian statue  of  Ludwig,  a  royally  commanding  figure, 
with  a  page  on  either  side.  The  street  is  closed  (so 
that  it  Hows  oft'  on  either  side  into  streets  of  handsome 
shops)  by  the  Feldherrnhalle,  Hall  of  the  Generals,  an 
imitation  of  the  beautiful  Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  at  Florence, 
that  as  yet  contains  only  two  statues,  which  seem  lost 
in  it.  Here  at  noon,  with  parade  of  infantry,  comes  a 
military  band  to  play  for  half  an  hour;  and  there  are 
always  plenty  of  idlers  to  listen  to  them.  In  the  high 
arcade  a  colony  of  doves  is  domesticated;  and  I  like  to 
watch  them  circling  about  and  wheeling  round  the  spires 
of  the  over-decorated  Theatine  church  opposite,  and 
perching  on  the  heads  of  the  statues  on  the  facade. 

The  royal  palace,  near  by,  is  a  huddle  of  buildings 
and  courts,  that  I  think  nobody  can  describe  or  under- 
stand, built  at  different  times  and  in  imitation  of  many 
styles.  The  front,  toward  the  Hof  Garden,  a  grassle-s 
square  of  small  trees,  with  open  arcades  on  two  sides  for 
shops,  and  partially  decorated  with  frescos  of  land- 
?capes  and  historical  subjects,  is  "  a  building  of  festive 
halls,"  a  facade  eight  hundred  leet  long,  in  the  revived 
Italian  style,  and  with  a  line  Ionic  porch.  The  color  ia 


roo  OUTSIDE  ASPECTS  OF  MUNICH. 

the  royal,  dirty  yellow.  On  the  Max  Joseph  Platz, 
which  has  a  bronze  statue  of  King  Max,  a  seated  figure, 
and  some  elaborate  bas-reliefs,  is  another  front  of  the 
palace,  the  Koni2:sbau,  an  imitation,  not  fully  carried 
our,  of  the  Pitti  Palace,  at  Florence.  Between  these  is 
the  old  Residenz,  adorned  with  fountain  groups  anil 
statues  in  bronze.  On  another  side  are  the  church  and 
theatre  of  the  Residenz.  The  interior  of  this  court 
chapel  is  dazzling  in  appearance :  the  pillars  are,  I 
think,  imitation  of  variegated  marble ;  the  sides  are  imi- 
tation of  the  same ;  the  vaulting  is  covered  with  rich  fres- 
cos on  gold  ground.  The  whole  effect  is  rich,  but  it  is 
not  at  all  sacred.  Indeed,  there  is  no  church  in  Munich, 
except  the  old  cathedral,  the  Frauenkirche,  with  its 
high  Gothic  arches,  stained  windows,  and  dusty  old  carv- 
ings, that  gives  one  at  all  the  sort  of  feeling  that  it  is 
supposed  a  church  should  give.  The  court  chapel  in- 
terior is  boastingly  said  to  resemble  St.  Mark's,  in  Venice. 
You  see  how  far  imitation  of  the  classic  and  Italian  is 
carried  here  in  Munich;  so,  as  I  said,  the  buildings  need 
the  southern  sunlight.  Fortunately,  they  get  the  right 
quality  much  of  the  time.  The  Giyptothek,  a  Grecian 
structure  of  one  story,  erected  to  hold  the  treasures  of 
classic  sculpture  that  King  Ludwig  collected,  has  a 
beautiful  Ionic  porch  and  pediment.  On  the  outside  are 
niches  filled  with  statues.  In  the  pure  sunshine  and 
under  a  deep  blue  sky,  its  white  marble  glows  with  an 
almost  ethereal  beauty.  Opposite  stands  another  suc- 
cessful imitation  of  the  Grecian  style  of  architecture,  —  a 
building  with  a  Corinthian  porch,  also  of  white  marble. 
These,  with  the  Propyla3um,  before  mentioned,  come  out 
wonderfully  against  a  blue  sky.  A  few  squares  distant 
is  the  Pinakothek,  with  its  treasures  of  old  pictures,  and 
beyond  it  the  New  Pinakothek,  containing  works  of  mod- 
ern artists.  Its  exterior  is  decorated  with  frescos,  from 
designs  by  Kaulbach :  these  certainly  appear  best  in  a 
sparkling  light ;  though  I  am  bound  to  say  that  no  light 
can  make  very  much  of  them. 


OUTSIDE  ASPECTS  :V-  .!/".V/c7/.  joi 

Yet  Munich  is  not  all  imitation.  Its  finest  street,  tl)<3 
Maximilian,  built  l>y  the  late,  king  of  that  name,  i-  of  a 
novel  ami  wholly  modern  style  ot'  arehiteetnre,  not  an 
imitation,  though  it  may  remind  some  of  the  ne\v  por- 
tions ot'  Paris.  It  runs  lor  three-quarters  of  a  mile.  be- 
ginning with  the,  post-office  and  its  colonnades,  with 
livscos  on  one  side,  and  the  Hot'  Theatre,  wiih  its  pedi- 
ment frescos,  the  largest  opera-house  in  (Jermany,  1 
believe;  with  stately  buildings  adorned  with  statue-, 
and  elegant  shops,  down  to  the  swift-tlo^vinur  Isar,  which 
is  spanned  by  a  handsome  bridge;  or  rather  by  two 
bridges,  tor  the  Isar  is  partly  turned  from  its  bed  above, 
and  made  to  turn  wheels  and  drive;  machinery.  At  the 
lower  end  the  street  expands  into  a  handsome  platz,  with 
voting  shade-trees,  plats  of  grass,  and  gay  beds  ot'llow- 
[  look  out  on  it  as  1  write ;  and  I  see  across  the 
Isar  the  college  building  begun  by  Maximilian  for  the 
education  of  government  officers;  and  I  see  that  it  is 
still  unfinished,  indeed,  a  staring  mnss  of  brick,  with 
unsightly  scaffolding  and  gaping  windows.  Money  was 
left  to  complete  it;  but  the  young  king,  who  does  not 
care  for  architecture,  keeps  only  a  mason  or  two  on  the 
brick  work,  and  an  artist  on  the  exterior  frescos.  At 
this  rate  the  Cologne  Cathedral  will  be  finished  and 
decay  before  this  is  built.  On  either  side  of  it,  on  the 
elevated  hank  of  the  river,  stretch  beautiful  grounds, 
with  green  lawns,  fine  trees,  and  well-kept  walks. 

Not  to  mention  the  English  Garden  in  speaking  of  the 
outside  aspects  of  the  city,  would  be  a  great  oversight. 
It  was  laid  out  originally  by  the  munificent  American, 
Count  Rumford,  and  is  called  English,  I  suppose,  because 
it  is  not  in  the  artificial  Continental  style.  Paris  has 
nothing  to  compare  with  it  ibr  natural  beauty,  —  Paris, 
which  cannot  let  a  tree  grow,  but  must  clip  it  down  to 
suit  French  taste.  It  is  a  noble  park  four  miles  in 
length,  and  perhaps  a  quarter  of  that  in  width,  —  a  park 
of  Splendid  old  trees,  grand,  sweeping  avenues,  open 
glades  of  free-growing  grass,  with  delicious,  shady  walks, 


icV         &U'TS-fnE "  A'SPEC  TS  OF  MUNICH. 

charming  drives,  and  rivers  of  water.  For  the  Isar  is 
trained  to  flow  through  it  in  two  rapid  streams,  under 
bridges  and  over  rapids,  and  by  willow-hung  banks. 
There  is  not  wanting  even  a  lake;  and  there  is,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  a  temple  on  a  mound,  quite  in  the  classic 
style,  from  which  one  can  see  the  sun  set  behind  the 
many  spires  of  Munich.  At  the  Chinese  Tower  two 
military  bands  play  every  Saturday  evening  in  the  sum- 
mer;  and  thither  the  carriages  drive,  and  the  prome- 
naders  assemble  there,  between  five  and  six  o'clock ;  and 
while  the  bands  play,  the  Germans  drink  beer,  and  smoke 
cigars,  and  the  fashionably-attired  young  men  walk  round 
and  round  the  circle,  and  the  smart  young  soldiers  ex- 
hibit their  handsome  uniforms,  and  stride  about  with 
clanking  swords. 

We  felicitated  ourselves  that  we  should  have  no  lack 
of  music  when  we  came  to  Munich.  I  think  we  have 
not ;  though  the  opera  has  only  just  begun,  and  it  is  the 
vacation  of  the  Conservatoire.  There  are  first  the  mili- 
tary bands :  there  is  continually  a  parade  somewhere, 
and  the  streets  are  full  of  military  musie,  and  finely  exe- 
cuted too.  Then  of  beer-gardens  there  is  literally  no 
end,  and  there  are  nightly  concerts  in  them.  There  are 
two  brothers  Hunn,  each  with  his  band,  who,  like  the 
ancient  Huns,  have  taken  the  city ;  and  its  gardens  are 
given  over  to  their  unending  waltzes,  polkas,  and  opera 
medleys.  Then  there  is  the  church  music  on  Sundays 
and  holidays,  which  is  largely  of  a  military  character ;  at 
least,  has  the  aid  of  drums  and  trumpets,  and  the  whole 
band  of  brass.  For  the  first  few  days  of  our  stay  here 
we  had  rooms  near  the  Maximilian  Platz  and  the  Karl's 
Tlior.  I  think  there  was  some  sort  of  a  yearly  fair  in 
progress,  for  the  great  platz  was  filled  with  temporary 
booths :  a  circus  had  set  itself  up  there,  and  there  were 
innumerable  side-shows  and  lottery-stands ;  and  I  believe 
that  each  little  shanty  and  puppet-show  had  its  band  or 
fraction  of  a  band,  lor  there  was  never  heard  such  a  toot- 
ing and  blowing  and  scraping,  such  a  pounding  and  din- 


OUTSIDE  ASPECTS  OF  MUNICH.  103 

nin<r  and  slang-whanging* rfnce  the  day  of  stopping  work 

on  the  Towi  r  (»t lialiel.  Tin-  circus  band  confined  itsc:f 
mostly  to  one  tune  ;  and  as  it  went  .-ill  day  long,  and  lato 
into  the  night,  we  go!  to  know  it  quite  well;  at  least,  the 

notes  of  it,  for  the  lighter  tones  came  to  us  indis- 
tinctly.   You  know  that  blurt,  blurt,  thump,  thump,  di^o- 

<.t  of  caravan  tune.  That  was  it.  The  Kn^li.-h  Cafd 
was  not  far  olV,  and  there  the  Hunns  and  o;h-T 
made  ni^ht  melodious.  The'  whole  air  was  one  throb  and 
tlirnmp.  The  only  refuge  from  it  was  to  go  into  one  of 
the  nardens,  ami  give  yourself  over  to  one  band.  And  so 
it  was  po>-ilile  to  have  delightful  music,  and  see  the 
hone>t  (Jermaus  drink  beer,  and  gossip  in  1'riendly  fellow- 
ship and  with  occasional  hilarity.  Bat  music  we  hud, 
early  and  late.  We  expected  quiet  in  our  present  quar- 
ters. The  first  morning,  at  six  o'clock,  we  were  startled 
by  the  resonant  notes  of  a  military  band,  that  set  tho 
echoes  flying  between  the  houses,  and  a  regiment  of 
cavalry  went  clanking  down  the  street.  But  that  is  a 
not  un  welcome  morning  serenade  and  reveille.  Not  so 
agre^hle  is  the  young  man  next  door,  who  gives  hilari- 
ous co>  certs  to  his  friends,  and  sings  and  bangs  his  piano 
all  da>  Sunday ;  nor  the  screaming  young  woman  oppo- 
site, tet  it  is  something  to  be  in  an  atmosphere  of 
music 


THE  MILITARY  LIFE  OF  MUNICH. 

r  I  ^HIS  morning  I  was  awakened  early  by  the  strains 
_1_  of  a  military  band.  It  was  a  clear,  sparkling  morn- 
ing, the  air  full  of  life,  and  yet  the  sun  showing  its  warm, 
southern  side.  As  the  mounted  musicians  went  by,  the 
square  was  quite  filled  with  the  clang  of  drum  and  trum- 
pet, which  became  fainter  and  fainter,  and  at  length  was 
lost  on  the  ear  beyond  the  Isar,  but  preserved  the  per- 
fection of  time  and  the  precision  of  execution  for  which 
the  military  bands  of  the  city  are  remarkable.  After  the 
band  came  a  brave  array  of  officers  in  bright  uniform, 
upon  horses  that  pranced  and  curvetted  in  the  sunshine ; 
and  the  regiment  of  cavalry  followed,  rank  on  rank  of 
splendidly-mounted  men,  who  ride  as  if  born  to  the  sad- 
dle. The  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  pavement,  the  jangle 
of  bit  and  sabre,  the  occasional  word  of  command,  the 
onward  sweep  of  the  well-trained  cavalcade,  continued 
for  a  long  time,  as  if  the  lovely  morning  had  brought  all 
the  cavalry  in  the  city  out  of  barracks.  But  this  is  an 
almost  daily  sight  in  Munich.  One  regiment  after  an- 
other goes  over  the  river  to  the  drill-ground.  In  the  hot 
mornings  I  used  quite  to  pity  the  troopers  who  rode  away 
in  the  glare  in  scorching  brazen  helmets  and  breast- 
plates. But  only  a  portion  of  the  regiments  dress  in  that 
absurd  manner.  The  most  wear  a  simple  uniform,  and 
look  very  soldierly.  The  horses  are  almost  invariably 
fine  animals,  and  1  have  not  seen  such  riders  in  Europe. 
Indeed,  everybody  in  Munich  who  rides  at  all  rides 
well.  Either  most  of  the  horsemen  have  served  in  the 
104 


THE.  MILITARY  LIFE  OF  MUNICH.         105 

ravalry,  or  horsemanship,  that  noblo  art  "  to  witch  tho 
World,"  is  in  high  repute  here. 

Speaking  of  soldiers.  Munich  is  full  of  them.  Tin  TO 
a iv  hu-.iv  ra>erns  in  every  part  ot'  tho  city  crowded 
with  troops.  This  little  kingdom  of  Bavaria  has  a 
hundred  and  twenty  thousand  troops  of  the  line.  Every 
man  is  obliged  to  serve  in  the  army  continuously  threo 
years;  and  every  man  between  the  ages  of  twenty-one 
and  forty-live  must  go  with  his  regiment  into  camp  or 
barrack  several  weeks  in  each  year,  no  matter  if  tho 
harvest  rots  in  the  field,  or  the  customers  desert  tho 
uncared-for  shop.  The  service  takes  three  of  the  best 
years  of  a  young  man's  life.  Most  of  the  soldiers  in  Mu- 
nich arc  young  :  one  meets  hundreds  of  mciv  boys  in 
the  uniform  of  officers.  I  think  every  seventh  man  you 
meet  is  a  soldier.  There  must  be  between  fifteen  and 
twenty  thousand  troops  quartered  in  the  city  now.  The 
young  officers  are  everywhere,  lounging  in  the  cafe's, 
smoking  and  sipping  coffee,  on  all  the  public  promenades, 
in  the  gardens,  the  theatres,  the  churches.  And  most 
of  them  are  fine-looking  fellows,  good  figures  in  elegantly- 
fitting  and  tasteful  uniforms ;  but  they  do  like  to  show 
their  handsome  forms  and  hear  their  sword-scabbards 
rattle  on  the  pavement  as  they  stride  by.  The  beer- 
gardens  are  full  of  the  common  soldiers,  who  empty  no 
end  of  quart  mugs  in  alternate  pulls  from  the  same 
earthen  jug,  with  the  utmost  jollity  and  good  fellowship. 
On  the  street,  salutes  between  officers  and  men  are  per- 
petual, punctiliously  given  and  returned, —  the  hand  raised 
to  the  temple,  and  held  there  for  a  second.  A  young 
<rallant,  lounging  down  the  Thcatiner  or  the  Maximilian 
Strasse,  in  his  shining  and  snug  uniform,  white  kids,  and 
polished  boots,  with  jangling  spurs  and  the  long  sword 
clanking  on  the  walk,  raising  his  hand  ever  and  anon  in 
condescending  salute  to  a  lower  in  rank,  or  with  affable 
grace  to  an  equal,  is  a  sight  worth  beholding,  and  for 
which  one  cannot  be  too  grateful.  We  have  not  all  been 
created  with  the  natural  shape  for  soldiers,  but  we  have 
eyes  given  us  that  we  may  behold  them. 


io6        THE  MILITARY  LIFE  OF  MUNICH. 

Bavaria  fought,  you  know,  on  the  wrong  side  at  Sa- 
•  dowa;  but  the  result  of  the  war  left  her  in  confederation 
with  Prussia.  The  company  is  getting  to  be  very  dis- 
tasteful, for  Austria  is  at  present  more  liberal  than  Prus- 
sia. Under  Prussia  one  must  either  be  a  soldier  or  a 
slave,  the  democrats  of  Munich  say.  Bavaria  has  the 
most  liberal  constitution  in  Germany,  except  that  of 
Wiirtemberg,  and  the  people  are  jealous  of  any  curtail- 
ment of  liberty.  It  seems  odd  that  anybody  should  look 
to  the  house  of  Ilapsburg  for  liberality.  The  attitude 
of  Prussia  compels  all  the  little  states  to  keep  up  armies, 
which  eat  up  their  substance,  and  burden  the  people  with 
taxes.  This  is  the  more  to  be  regretted  now,  when  Bava- 
ria is  undergoing  a  peaceful  revolution,  and  throwing  off 
the  trammels  of  galling  customs  in  other  respects. 


THE   EMANCIPATION  OF  MUNICH. 

rj^HE  1st  of  September  saw  go  into  complete  effect 
JL  the  laws  enacted  in  ISO 7,  which  have  inaugurated 
the  givatesi  changes  in  bii-incss  and  social  life,  and  mark 
an  era  in  the  progress  oi'thc  people  worthy  ut'  fetes  and 
Commemorative  brnn/cs.  We  heard  the  other  night  at 
the  opera-house"  \Yilliam  Tell  "  unmutilated.  For  many 
years  this  liberty-breathing  opera,  was  not  permitted  to 
be  given  in  Bavaria,  except  with  all  the  lite  of  it  cut  out. 
It  was  first  presented  entire  by  order  of  young  King 
Lading,  who,  they  say,  was  induced  to  command  its 
unmutilated  reproduction  at  the  solicitation  of  Richard 
Wanner,  who  used  to  be,  and  very  likely  is  now,  a. 
'•  ll-d,"  and  was  banished  from  Saxony  in  1848  for  light- 
ing on  the  people's  side  of  a  barricade  in  Dresden.  It  is 
the  fashion  to  say  of  the  young  king,  that  he  pays  no 
heed  to  the  business  of  the  kingdom.  You  hear  that  the 
handsome  boy  only  cares  for  music  and  horseback  exer- 
cise: he  plays  much  on  the  violin,  and  rides  away  into 
the  forest  attended  by  only  one  groom,  and  is  gone  for 
days  together.  He  lias  composed  an  opera,  which  has 
not  yet  been  put  on  the  sta.^c.  People,  when  they  speak 
of  him,  tap  their  foreheads  with  one  linger.  But  I  don't 
believe  it.  The  same  liberality  that  induced  him,  years 
ago,  to  restore  William  Tell  to  the  stage  has  character- 
ized the  government  under  him  ever  since. 

Formerly  no  one  could  engage  in  any  trade  or  IMIM- 
ness  in  Bavaria  without  previous    examination    belore, 

107 


io8        THE  EMANCIPA  TION  OF  MUNICH. 

arid  permission  from,  a  magistrate.  If  a  boy  wished  to 
be  a  baker,  for  instance,  lie  had  first  to  serve  four  years 
of  apprenticeship.  If  then  he  wished  to  set  up  business 
for  himself,  he  must  get  permission,  after  passing  an 
examination.  This  permission  could  rarely  be  obtained; 
for  the  magistrate  usually  decided  that  there  were 
already  as  many  bakers  as  the  town  needed.  His  only 
other  resource  was  to  buy  out  an  existing  business,  arid 
this  usually  costs  a  good  deal.  When  he  petitioned  lor 
the  privilege  of  starting  a  bakery,  all  the  bakers  pro- 
tested. And  he  could  not  even  buy  out  a  stand,  and 
carry  it  on,  without  strict  examination  as  to  qualifica- 
tions. This  was  the  case  in  every  trade.  And  to  make 
matters  worse,  a  master  workman  could  not  employ  a 
journeyman  out  of  his  shop ;  so  that,  if  a  journeyman 
could  not  get  a  regular  situation,  he  had  no  work.  Then 
there  were  endless  restrictions  upon  the  manufacture  and 
sale  of  articles :  one  person  could  only  make  one  article, 
or  one  portion  of  an  article;  one  might  manufacture 
shoes  for  women,  but  not  for  men ;  he  might  make  an 
article  in  the  shop  and  sell  it,  but  could  not  sell  it  if  any 
one  else  made  it  outside,  or  vice  versa. 

Nearly  all  this  mass  of  useless  restriction  on  trades 
and  business,  which  palsied  all  effort  in  Bavaria,  is 
removed.  Persons  are  free  to  enter  into  any  business 
they  like.  The  system  of  apprenticeship  continues,  but 
so  modified  as  not  to  be  oppressive ;  and  all  trades  are 
left  to  regulate  themselves  by  natural  competition.  Al- 
ready Munich  has  felt  the  benefit  of  the  removal  of 
these  restrictions,  which  for  nearly  a  year  has  been  anti- 
cipated, in  a  growth  of  population  and  increased  busi- 
ness. 

But  the  social  change  is  still  more  important.  The 
restrictions  upon  marriage  were  a  serious  injury  to  the 
state.  If  Hans  wished  to  marry,  and  felt  himself  ade- 
quate to  the  burdens  and  responsibilities  of  the  double 
state,  and  the  honest  fraulein  was  quite  willing  to  under- 
take its  trials  and  risks  with  him,  it  was  not  at  all 


THE  EMA\C;rA  TIOV  OF  MUNICH.         109 

enough  that  in  the  monnli  dilcd  IMVI-- ;arden,  whi'e  the, 
l>;unl  played,  and  they  peeled  tin-  Min-iirj;  radi>h,  and 
ate  tin'  Switzer  chee.M-,  Mini  drank  from  OIK-  inni,  >he 
allowed  his  arm  to  steal  around  her  stoiu  wnist.  All 
this  love  and  fitness  went  lor  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  the 
magistrate,  who  relerred  the1  application  for  permission 
to  marry  to  his  associate  advisers,  and  they  inquired  into 
the  applicant's  rnvu:n>tance>;  and  il,  in  their  opinion, 
be  was  not  worth  enon  Ji  money  to  support  a  wife  prop- 
erly, permission  was  retired  tor  him  to  try.  Tin-  con-e- 
qtu'nee  was  late  marriages,  and  i'cwcr  than  there  on-lit 
to  he,  and  other  ill  results.  Now  the  matrimonial 
an-  lilted  hi^h,  and  the  youn^  man  has  not  to  ask  per- 
misMo'.i  ui'any  snnlly  old  majistrale  to  marry.  I  do  not 
hear  that  the  consent  of  the  maidens  is  more  diflieult  to 
obtain  than  formerly. 

Xo  city  of  its  size  is  more  prolific  of  pictures  than 
Munich.  I  do  not  know  how  all  its  artists  manage  to 
live,  bat  many  of  them  count  upon  the  American  public. 
I  hear  everywhere  that  the  Americans  like  this,  and  do 
not  like  that;  and  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  some  artists, 
who  have  done  better  things,  paint  professedly  to  suit 
Americans,  and  not  to  express  their  own  conceptions  of 
beauty.  There  is  one  who  is  now  quite  devoted  to 
dashing  olf  rather  lamp-blacky  moonlights,  because,  he 
says,  the  Americans  lancy  that  sort  of  tiling.  I  see  one 
of  his  smirchy  pictures  han-in-j;  in  a  shop- window, await- 
ing the  advent  of  the  citizen  of  the  United  States.  I 
trust  that  no  word  of  mine  will  injure  the  sale  of  the 
moonlights.  There  are  some  excellent  figure-painter! 
here,  and  one  can  still  buy  good  modern  pictures  ibr 
reasonable  prices. 


FASHION   IN   THE   STREETS. 

~TTT~AS  there  ever  elsewhere  such  a  blue,  transparent 
W  sky  as  this  here  in  Munich?  At  noon,  looking 
up  to  it  from  the  street,  above  the  gray  houses,  the  color 
and  depth  are  marvellous.  It  makes  a  background  for 
the  Grecian  art  buildings  and  gateways,  that  would 
cheat  a  risen  Athenian  who  should  see  it  into  the  belief 
that  he  was  restored  to  his  beautiful  city.  The  color 
holds,  too,  toward  sundown,  and  seems  to  be  poured,  like 
something  solid,  into  the  streets  of  the  city. 

You  should  see  then  the  Maximilian  Strasse,  when  the 
light  floods  the  platz  where  Maximilian  in  bronze  sits 
in  his  chair,  illuminates  the  frescos  on  the  pediments 
of  the  Hof  Theatre,  brightens  the  Pompeian  red  under 
the  colonnade  of  the  post-office,  and  streams  down  the 
gay  thoroughfare  to  the  trees  and  statues  in  front  of  the 
National  Museum,  and  into  the  gold-dusted  atmosphere 
beyond  the  Isar.  The  street  is  filled  with  promenaders  : 
strangers  who  saunter  along  with  the  red  book  in  one 
hand,  —  a  man  and  his  wife,  the  woman  dragged  reluc- 
tantly past  the  windows  of  fancy  articles,  which  are  "  so 
cheap,"  the  man  breaking  his  neck  to  look  up  at  the 
buildings,  especially  at  the  comical  heads  and  figures  in 
stone  that  stretch  out  from  the  little  oriel-windows  in 
the  highest  story  of  the  Four-Seasons  Hotel,  and  look 
down  upon  the  moving  throng ;  Munich  bucks  in  coats 
of  velvet,  swinging  light  canes,  and  smoking  cigars 
through  long  and  elaborately-carved  meerschaum  hold- 
ers; Munich  ladies  in  dresses  of  that  inconvenient  length 
110 


FASHION  IN  THE  STREETS.  1  1  1 


that  neither  sweeps  the  pavement  nor  dears  it  ; 
t'nun  the  Tyrol,  the  UK'ii  in  black,  ti-ht  bivccln-s,  \\\\\\ 
button  from  the  knee  to  the  ankle,  short  jackets  and 
B6l  thickly  with  round  silver  button-,  and  conical 
hats  with  feathers,  and  the  women  in  short  quilted  and 
quilled  petticoats,  of  barrel-like  roundness  from  the 
broad  hips  down,  short  waisls  ornamented  with  chains 
and  barbarous  broodies  of  white  metal,  with  the  oddest 
head-gear  of  gold  and  silver  heirlooms;  students  wiih 
little  i\  d  or  LLTeen  embroidered  brimless  caps,  with  the 
ribbon  across  the  hrea-t,  a  iblded  >hawl  thrown  over  one 
shoulder,  and  the  inevitable  switch-cane.;  porters  in  red 
caps,  with  a  coil  of  twine  about  the  wai.-t  .  ;  young  lellows 
from  Bohemia,  with  green  coats,  or  coats  tYimmcd  wi.h 
green,  and  green  lelt  hats  with  a  still'  feather  stuck  in 
the  side;  ami  soldiers  by  the  hundreds,  of  all  ranks  ami 
organization*}  ;  common  fellows  in  blue,  staring  in  at  the 
shop-windows,  oilicers  in  resplendent  uniforms,  clanking 
their  swords  as  they  swagger  past.  Now  and  then,  an 
elegant  equipage  dashes  by,  —  perhaps  the  four  horses  of 
the  handsome  young  king,  with  mounted  postilions  and 
outriders,  or  a  liveried  carriage  of  somebody  born  with 
a  von  before  his  name.  As  the  twilight  comes  on,  the 
shutters  of  the  shop-windows  are  put  up.  It  is  time  to 
go  to  the  opera,  ibr  the  curtain  ri>cs  at  half-past  six,  or 
to  the  beer-gardens,  where  delicious  music  marks,  but 
does  not  interrupt,  the  How  of  excellent  beer. 

Or  you  may  if  you  choose,  and  I  advise  you  to  do  it, 
walk  at  the  same  hour  in  the  English  Garden,  which  is 
but  a  step  from  the  arcades  of  the  Hot'  Garden,  —  but  a 
step  to  the  entrance,  whence  you  may  wander  tor  miles 
and  miles  in  the  most  enchanting  scenery.  Art  has  not 
been  allowed  here  to  spoil  nature.  The  trees,  whi  h 
are  of  magnificent  size,  are  left  to  grow  naturallv;  the, 
Isar,  which  is  turned  into  it,  Hows  in  more  than  one 
Stream  with  its  mountain  impetuosi:v;  the  lake  is  grace- 
fully indented  and  overhung  with  trees,  and  pie-cuts 
ever-changing  aspects  of  loveliness  as  you  walk  along  it  a 


112  FASHION  IN  THE  STREETS. 

/Kinks,  there  are  open,  sunny  meadows,  in  which  single 
giant  trees  or  splendid  groups  of  them  stand,  and  walks 
without  end  winding  under  leafy  Gothie  arehes.  You 
know  already  that  Munich  owes  this  fine  park  to  the 
foresight  and  liberality  of  an  American  Tory,  Benjamin 
Thompson  (Count  Kumfbrd),  born  in  Rumford,  Vt.,  who 
also  relieved  Munich  of  beggars. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  number  of  soldiers  in  Munich. 
For  six  weeks  the  Landwehr,  or  militia,  has  been  in 
camp  in  various  parts  of  Bavaria.  There  was  a  grand 
review  of  them  the  other  day  on  the  Field  of  Mars,  by 
the  king,  and  many  of  them  have  now  gone  home.  They 
strike  an  unmilitary  man  as  a  very  efficient  body  of  troops. 
So  far  as  I  could  see,  they  were  armed  with  breech-load- 
ing rifles.  There  is  a  treaty  by  which  Bavaria  agreed 
to  assimilate  her  military  organization  to  that  of  Prussia. 
It  is  thus  that  Bismarck  is  continually  getting  rea.dy. 
But  if  the  Landwehr  is  gone,  there  are  yet  remaining 
troops  enough  of  the  line.  Their  chief  use,  so  far  as  it 
concerns  me,  is  to  make  pageants  in  the  streets,  and  to 
send  their  bands  to  play  at  noon  in  the  public  squares. 
Every  day,  when  the  sun  shines  down  upon  the  mounted 
statue  of  Ludwig  L,  in  front  of  the  Odcon,  a  band  plays 
in  an  open  Loggia,  and  there  is  always  a  crowd  of  idlers 
in  the  square  to  hear  it.  Everybody  has  leisure  for  that 
sort  of  thing  here  in  Europe ;  and  one  can  easily  learri 
how  to  be  idle  and  let  the  world  wag.  They  have  found 
out  here  what  is  disbelieved  in  America,  —  that  the  world 
•will  continue  to  turn  over  once  in  about  twenty-four 
hours  (they  are  not  accurate  as  to  the  time)  without 
their  aid.  To  return  to  our  soldiers.  The  cavalry  most 
impresses  me ;  the  men  are  so  finely  mounted,  and  they 
ride  royally.  In  these  sparkling  mornings,  when  the 
regiments  clatter  past,  with  swelling  music  and  shining 
armor,  riding  away  to  I  know  not  what  adventure  and 
glory,  I  confess  that  I  long  to  follow  them.  I  have  long  had 
this  desire  ;  and  the  other  morning,  determining  to  satisfy 
it,  I  seized  my  hat  and  went  after  the  prancing  proces* 


FASfffO.V  IN  THE  S  TREE  TS.  113 

Finn,  f  am  sorry  I  did.  For,  after  trudging  after  it 
throudi  street  after  street,  tin-  fine  hor-emen  all  rndu 
through  an  arched  gateway,  and  disappeared  in  barracks, 

to  my -.rival  di<gu-t.;  and  the  troopers  dismounted,  and 

led  their  steed-;  into  stables. 

And  yet  one  never  loses  a  walk  hero  in  Munich.  1 
found  myself  that  morning  by  the  Isiir  Tlior.  ;i  restored 
medieval  city-gate.  The  gate  is  double,  with  Hanking 
oei atonal  towers,  enclosing  a  quadrangle.  Upon  the 
inner  wall  is  a  fresco  of  '  The  Crucifixion."  Over  the 
outer  front  is  a  representation,  in  freser  paintin'_r.  of  the 
triumphal  entry  into  the  city  of  the  Emperor  Louis  of 
Ua  varia  after  the  battle  of  Ampfing.  On  one  side  of  the 
gate  is  a  portrait  of  the  Virgin,  on  gold  ground,  and  on 
the  other  a  very  p-issablo  one  of  the  late  Dr.  Ilawes  of 
Hartford,  with  a  Pope's  hat  on.  Walking  on,  I  eame  to 
another  arched  gateway  and  clock-tower;  near  it  an  old 
church,  with  a  hi^li  wall  adjoining,  whereon  is  a  fresco 
of  cattle  led  to  slaughter,  showing  that  I  am  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  the  Victual  Market;  and  I  enter  it  through  a 
narrow,  crooked  alley.  There  is  nothing  there  but  an 
assemblage  of  shabby  booths  and  fruit-stands,  and  an 
ancient  stone  tower  in  ruins  and  overgrown  with  ivy. 

Leaving  this,  I  came  out  to  the  Marian  Platz,  where 
stands  the  column,  with  the  statue  of  the  Virgin  and 
Child,  set  up  by  Maximilian  I.  in  1G38  to  celebrate  the 
victory  in  the  battle  which  established  the  Catholic 
supremacy  in  Bavaria.  It  is  a  favorite  praying-place 
for  the  lower  classes.  Yesterday  was  a  fete  day,  and 
the  base  of  the  column  and  half  its  height  are  lost  in  a 
mass  of  flowers  and  evergreens.  In  front  is  erected  an 
altar  with  a  broad,  carpeted  platform;  and  a  strip  of  the 
platz  before  it  is  enclosed  with  a  railing,  within  whi<  h 
are  praying-benches.  The  sun  shines  d.»wn  hot;  but 
there  are  several  poor  women  kneeling  there,  with  their 
baskets  beside  them.  I  happen  along  there  at  sundown; 
ami  there  are  <\  score  of  women  kneeling  on  the  hard 
stones,  oulside  the  railing  saying  their  prayers  in  loud 
10* 


1 14  FASHION  IN  THE  STREE  TS. 

voices.  The  mass  of  flowers  is  still  sweet  and  gay  ant  I 
fresh ;  a  fountain  with  iantastic  figures  is  flashing  near 
by;  the  crowd,  going  home  to  supper  and  beer,  gives  no 
heed  to  the  praying;  the  stolid  drosche-drivers  stand 
listlessly  by.  At  the  bead  of  the  square  is  an  artillery 
fetation,  and  a  row  of  cannon  frowns  on  it.  On  one  side 
is  a  house  with  a  tablet  in  the  wall,  recording  the  fact 
that  Gustavus  Adolphus  of  Sweden  once  lived  in  it. 

When  we  came  to  Munich,  the  great  annual  fair  waa 
in  progress ;  and  the  large  Maximilian  Platz  (not  to  be 
confounded  with  the  street  of  that  name)  was  filled  with 
booths  of  cheap  merchandise,  puppet-enows,  lottery 
shanties,  and  all  sorts  of  popular  amusements.  It  was 
a  fine  time  to  study  peasant  costumes.  The  city  was 
crowded  with  them  on  Sunday;  and  let  us  not  forget 
that  the  first  visit  of  the  peasants  was  to  the  churches : 
they  invariably  attended  early  mass  before  they  set  out 
upon  the  day's  pleasure.  Most  of  the  churches  have 
services  at  all  hours  till  noon,  some  of  them  with  fine 
classical  and  military  music.  One  could  not  but  be 
struck  with  the  devotional  manner  of  the  simple  women, 
in  their  queer  costumes,  who  walked  into  the  gaudy  edi- 
fices, were  absorbed  in  their  prayers  for  an  hour,  and 
then  went  away.  I  suppose  they  did  not  know  how  odd 
they  looked  in  their  high,  round  fur  hats,  or  their  fan- 
tastic old  ornaments,  nor  that  there  was  any  thing  amiss 
in  bringing  their  big  baskets  into  church  with  them. 
At  least,  their  simple,  unconscious  manner  was  better 
than  that  of  many  of  the  city  people,  some  of  whom 
stare  about  a  good  deal,  while  going  through  the  service, 
and  stop  in  the  midst  of  crossings  and  genuflections  to 
take  snuff'  and  pass  it  to  their  neighbors.  But  there  are 
always  present  simple  and  homelike  sort  of  people,  who 
neither  follow  the  ia^hions  nor  look  round  on  them  ; 
respectable,  neat  old  ladies,  in  the  faded  and  carefully- 
preserved  silk  gowns,  such  as  the  New-England  women 
wear  to  "  meeting." 

No  one  can  help  admiring  the  simplicity,  kindliness, 


FASHION  IN  THE  S  TREK  TS.  115 

and  honesty  of  the  Germans.  The  universal  court.-y 
and  friendluMMfl  of  manner  have  a  very  diil't'ivnt  seeming 
ironi  tin1  politeness  of  the  Freneli.  A(  the  hotels  in  the 
country,  the  landlord  and  his  wile  and  the  servant  join 
in  hoping  yon  will  sleep  well  when  you  go  to  bed.  The 
little  maid  at  Heidelberg  who  served  our  meals  always 
went  to  the  extent  of  wishing  us  a  good  appetite  when 
she  had  brought  in  the  dinner.  Here  in  Munich  the 
people  we  have  occasion  to  address  in  the  street,  are  tini- 
ibrinly  courteous.  The  shop-keepers  are  obliging,  and 
rarely  servile,  like  the  Knglish.  You  are  thanked,  and 
punctiliously  wished  the  good  day,  whether  you  purchase 
any  tiling  or  not.  In  shops  tended  by  women,  gentlemen 
invariably  remove  their  hats.  If  you  buy  only  a  kreu- 
xer's  worth  of  fruit  of  an  old  woman,  she  says  words  that 
would  be,  literally  translated,  UI  thank  you  beautifully." 
AVith  all  this,  one  locks  kindly  on  the  childish  love  the 
Germans  have  for  titles.  It  is,  I  believe,  difficult  for  the 
German  mind  to  comprehend  that  we  can  be  in  good 
standing  at  home,  unless  we  have  some  title  prefixed  to 
our  names,  or  some  descriptive  phrase  added.  Our  good 
landlord,  who  waits  at  the  table  and  answers  our  bell, 
one  of  whose  tenants  is  a  living  baron,  having  no  title 
to  put  on  his  door-plate  under  that  of  the  baron,  must 
Deeds  dub  himself  "  privatier ;"  and  he  insists  upon 
prefixing  the  name  of  this  unambitious  writer  with  the 
ennobling  von  ;  and  at  the  least  he  insists,  in  common 
with  the  tradespeople,  that  I  ain  a  "  Herr  Doctor." 
The  bills  of  purchases  by  madame  come  made  out  to 

"Frau   ,   well-born."     At   a   hotel  in    Heidelberg, 

where  I  had  registered  my  name  with  that  distinctness 
of  penmanship  tor  which  newspaper  men  are  justly  con- 
spicuous, and  had  added  to  my  own  name  "  &  wife,"  I 
was  not  a  little  flattered  to  appear  in  the  reckoning  as 
"  Herr  Doctor  Mainesweise." 


THE    GOTTESACKER     AND     BAVARIAN 
FUNERALS. 

r  MO  change  the  subject  from  gay  to  grave.  The 
I  Gottesaeker  of  Munich  is  called  the  finest  cemetery 
in  Germany;  at  least,  it  surpasses  them  in  the  artistic 
taste  of  its  monuments.  Natural  beauty  it  has  none :  it  is 
simply  a  long,  narrow  strip  of  ground  enclosed  in  walls, 
with  straight,  parallel  walks  running  the  whole  length, 
and  narrow  cross-walks;  and  yet  it  is  a  lovely  burial- 
ground.  There  are  but  few  trees ;  but  the  whole  enclosure 
is  a  conservatory  of  beautiful  flowers.  Every  grave  is  cov- 
ered with  them,  every  monument  is  surrounded  with 
them.  The  monuments  are  unpretending  in  size,  but 
there  are  many  fine  designs,  and  many  finely-executed 
busts  and  statues  and  allegorical  figures,  in  both  marble 
and  bronze.  The  place  is  full  of  sunlight  and  color.  I 
noticed  that  it  was  much  frequented.  In  front  of  every 
place  of  sepulchre  stands  a  small  urn  for  water,  with  a 
brush  hanging  by,  with  which  to  sprinkle  the  flowers.  I 
saw,  also,  many  women  and  children  coming  and  going 
with  watering-pots,  so  that  the  flowers  never  droop  for 
want  of  care.  At  the  lower  end  of  the  old  ground  is  an 
open  arcade,  wherein  are  some  effigies  and  busts,  and 
many  ancient  tablets  set  into  the  wall.  Beyond  this  is 
the  new  cemetery,  an  enclosure  surrounded  by  a  high 
wall  of  brick,  and  on  the  inside  by  an  arcade.  The 
space  within  is  planted  with  flowers,  and  laid  out  for  the 
burial  of  the  people;  the  arcades  are  devoted  to  the 
occupation  of  those  who  can  afford  costly  tombs.  Only 
116 


THE  GOTTESACKER  AND  117 

asm-ill  Dumber  of  them  are  yet  occupied;  there  are  >onm 
good  busts  and  monuments,  and  some  frescos  on  this 
panels  rather  more  striking  f»r  >i/e  and  color  than  for 
beauty. 

l>t -tween  the  two  cemeteries  is  the  house  ibr  the  dead. 
When  I  walked  down  the  loii'j;  central  u//<r  of  the,  old 
ground,  I  saw  at  the  farther  end,  hcyond  a  fountain, 
twinkling  lights.  1'oming  nearer,  I  tbund  that  they  pro- 
ceeded t'n>m  the  large  windows  of  a  building,  which  was 
a  part,  of  the  arcade.  People  were  looking  in  at  the  \\in- 
dows,  goin'j;  and  coming  to  and  from  them  continually; 
and  I  was  prompted  hv  curiosity  to  look  within.  A  mo>t 
Unexpected  sight  met  my  eye.  In  a  long  room,  upon  ele- 
vated biers,  lay  people  dead:  they  were  so  disposed 
that  the  faces  could  be  seen;  and  there  they  rested  in  a 
solemn  repose.  Officers  in  uniform,  citizens  in  plain 
dress,  matrons  and  maids  in  the  habits  that  they  wore 
when  living,  or  in  the  white  robes  of  the  grave.  About 
most  of  them  were  lighted  candles.  About  all  of  them 
were  flowers :  some  were  almost  covered  with  bouquets. 
There  were  rows  of  children,  —  little  ones  scarce  a  span 
lonir,  — in  the  white  caps  and  garments  of  innocence,  as 
if  asleep  in  beds  of  bowers.  How  naturally  they  all  were 
lying,  as  if  only  waiting  to  be  called  1  Upon  the  thumb 
of  every  adult  was  a  ring  in  which  a  string  was  tied  that 
went  through  a  pulley  above  and  communicated  with  a 
bell  in  the  attendant's  room.  How  frightened  he  would 
be  if  the  bell  should  ever  sound,  and  he  should  go  into 
that  hall  of  the  dead  to  see  who  rang  1  And  yet  it  is  a 
most  wise  and  humane  provision ;  and  many  years  ago, 
there  is  a  tradition,  an  entombment  alive  was  prevented 
by  it.  There  are  three  rooms  in  all ;  and  all  those  who 
die  in  Munich  must  be  brought  and  laid  in  one  of  them, 
to  be  seen  of  all  who  care  to  look  therein.  I  suppose 
that  wealth  and  rank  have  some  privileges;  but  it  is  the, 
law  that  a  person  having  been  pronounced  dead  by  tluj 
physician  shall  be  the  same  day  brought  to  the  dead- 
house,  and  lie  there  three  whole  days  before  interment. 


I iS  BA  VARTAN  FUNERALS. 

There  is  something  peculiar  in  the  obsequies  of  Mu 
nich,  especially  in  the  Catholic  portion  of  the  population. 
Shortly  after  the  death,  there  is  a  short  service  in  the 
courtyard  of  the  house,  which,  with  the  entrance,  is  hung 
in  costly  mourning,  if  the  deceased  was  rich.  The  body 
is  then  carried  in  the  car  to  the  dead-house,  attended  by 
the  priests,  the  male  members  of  the  family,  and  a  pro- 
cession of  torch-bearers,  if  that  can  be  afforded.  Three 
days  after,  the  burial  takes  place  from  the  dead-house, 
only  males  attending.  The  women  never  go  to  the  fune- 
ral ;  but  some  days  after,  of  which  public  notice  is  given 
by  advertisement,  a  public  service  is  held  in  church,  at 
which  all  the  family  are  present,  and  to  which  the  friends 
are  publicly  invited.  Funeral  obsequies  are  as  costly 
here  as  in  America ;  but  every  thing  is  here  regulated 
and  fixed  by  custom.  There  are  as  many  as  five  or  six 
classes  of  funerals  recognized.  Those  of  the  first  class, 
as  to  rank  and  expense,  cost  about  a  thousand  guldens. 
The  second  class  is  divided  into  six  sub-classes.  The 
third  is  divided  into  two.  The  cost  of  the  first  of  the 
third  class  is  about  four  hundred  guldens.  The  low- 
est class  of  those  able  to  have  a  funeral  costs  twenty-five 
guldens.  A  gulden  is  about  two  francs.  There  are  no 
carriages  used  at  the  funerals  of  Catholics,  only  at  those 
of  Protestants  and  Jews.  - 

I  spoke  of  the  custom  of  advertising  the  deaths.  A 
considerable  portion  of  the  daily  newspapers  is  devoted 
to  these  announcements,  which  are  printed  in  display 
type,  like  the  advertisements  of  dry-goods  sellers  with 
you.  I  will  roughly  translate  one  which  I  happen  to  see 
just  now.  It  reads,  "  Death  advertisement.  It  has 
pleased  God  the  Almighty,  in  his  inscrutable  providence, 
to  take  away  our  innermost  loved,  best  husband,  father, 
grandfather,  uncle,  brother-in-law,  and  cousin,  Herr  — 

,  dyer  of  cloth  and  silk,  yesterday  night,  at  eleven. 

o'clock,  after  three  weeks  of  severe  suffering,  having  par- 
taken of  the  holy  sacrament,  in  his  sixty-sixth  year,  out 
of  this  earthly  abode  of  calamity  into  the  better  Beyond, 


THE  GOTTESACKER.  119 

Those  who  knew  liis  <rond  heart,  his  tnvat  honesty,  as 
well  as  his  patience  in  suH'erini:,  will  know  how  justly  to 
estimate  mir  "Tief."  This  is  signed  by  the  "  drep-uriev- 
in-j;  Mirvivors," — the  widow,  son,  daughter, and  dau^htcr- 
in-law,  in  the  name  of  the  absent  relatives.  After  tin; 
name  of  the  son  is  written,  "Dyer  in  cloth  and  silk." 
The  notice  closes  with  an  announcement  of  the  funeral 
at  the  cemetery,  and  a  service  at  the  church  the  day 
alter.  The  advertisement  I  have  given  is  not  uncommon 
either  for  quaintness  or  simplicity.  It  is  common  to 
en -j;ra ve  upon  the  monument  the  business  as  well  as  the 
title  of  the  departed. 


THE  OCTOBER  FEST.—  THE  PEASANTS 
AND   THE   KING. 

ON  the  11  tli  of  October  the  sun  came  out,  after  a 
retirement  of  nearly  two  weeks.  The  cause  of  the 
appearance  was  the  close  of  the  October  Fest.  This 
great  popular  carnival  has  the  same  eifect  upon  the 
weather  in  Bavaria  that  the  Yearly  Meeting  of  Friends 
is  known  to  produce  in  Philadelphia,  and  the  Great  Na- 
tional Horse  Fair  in  New  England.  It  always  rains 
during  the  October  Fest.  Having  found  this  out,  I  do 
not  know  why  they  do  not  change  the  time  of  it ;  but  I 
presume  they  are  wise  enough  to  feel  that  it  would  be 
useless.  A  similar  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Quakers  merely  disturbed  the  operations  of  nature, 
but  did  not  save  the  drab  bonnets  from  the  annual  wet- 
ting. There  is  a  subtle  connection  between  such  gather- 
ings and  the  gathering  of  what  are  called  the  elements, 
—  a  sympathetic  connection,  which  we  shall,  no  doubt, 
one  day  understand,  when  we  have  collected  facts  enough 
on  the  subject  to  make  a  comprehensive  generalization, 
after  Mr.  Buckle's  method. 

This  fair,  which  is  just  concluded,  is  a  true  Folks- 
Fest,  a  season  especially  for  the  Bavarian  people,  an 
agricultural  fair  and  cattle  show,  but  a  time  of  gene- 
ral jollity  and  amusement  as  well.  Indeed,  the  main 
object  of  a  German  fair  seems  to  be  to  have  a  good  time ; 
and  in  this  it  is  in  marked  contrast  with  American  fairs. 
The  October  Fest  was  instituted  for  the  people  by  the 
old  Ludwig  I.  on  the  occasion  of  his  marriage ;  and  it 
120 


THE  OCTOBER  FEST.  k*< 

lias  over  since  retained  its  position  as  tlio  great  fe» /iv:J 
of  {he  Bavarian  people,  and  particularly  of  the  pea-air-. 
It  oilers  a  rare  opportunity  to  the.  stranger  to  study  the 
eost nines  of  the  peasants,  and  to  see.  how  they  amusu 
themselves.  One  can  judge  a  good  deal  of  the  proin-c-* 
of  a  people  by  the  sort  of  amusements  that  satisfy  them. 
I  am  not  about  to  draw  any  philosophical  interferences,  — • 
I  am  a  mere  looker-on  in  Munich  ;  but  I  have  never 
anywhere  else-  seen  puppet-shows  afford  so  much  delight, 
nor  have  I  ever  seen  anybody  get  more  satisfaction  out 
of  a  sausage  and  a  mug  of  beer,  with  the  turn-turn  of  a 
band  near  by,  than  a  Bavarian  peasant. 

The  Fest  was  held  on  the  Theresien  Wiese,  a  vast 
meadow  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  The  ground  rises 
on  one  side  of  this  by  an  abrupt  step,  some  thirty  or 
forty  feet  high,  like  the  "bench"  of  a  Western  river. 
This  bank  is  terraced  for  seats  the  whole  length,  or  as 
far  down  as  the  statue  of  Bavaria ;  so  that  there  are  turf 
seats,  I  should  judge,  for  three-quarters  of  a  mile,  for  a 
great  many  thousands  of  people,  who  can  look  dowr 
upon  the  race-course,  the  tents,  houses,  and  booths  of  the 
fair  ground,  and  upon  the  roof  and  spires  of  the  city 
beyond.  The  statue  is,  as  you  know,  the  famous  bronze 
Bavaria  of  Schwanthaler,  a  colossal  female  figure,  fifty 
feet  high,  and,  with  its  pedestal,  a  hundred  feet  high, 
which  stands  in  front  of  the  Hall  of  Fame,  a  Doric  edi- 
fice, in  the  open  colonnades  of  which  are  displayed  the 
busts  of  tlie  most  celebrated  Bavarians,  together  with 
those  of  a  few  poets  and  scholars  who  were  so  unfortu- 
nate as  not  to  be  born  here.  The  Bavaria  stands  with 
the,  right  hand  upon  the  sheathed  sword,  and  the  left 
raised  in  the  act  of  bestowing  a  wreath  of  victory;  and 
the  lion  of  the  kingdom  is  beside  her.  This  representa- 
tive being  is,  of  course,  hollow.  There  is  room  for  eight 
people  in  her  head,  which  I  can  testify  is  a  warm  place 
on  a  sunny  day;  and  one  can  peep  out  through  loop- 
holes and  get  a  good  view  of  tho  Alps  of  the  Tyrol.  To 
lay  that  this  statue  is  graceful  or  altogether  successful, 
11 


122         THE  PEASANTS  AND  THE  KING. 

would  be  an  error;  but  it  is  rather  impressive,  from  its 
size,  if  for  no  other  reason.  In  the  cast  of  the  hand 
exhibited  at  the  bronze  foundery,  the  forefinger  meas- 
ures over  three  feet  long. 

Although  the  Fest  did  not  officially  begin  until  Fri- 
day, Oct.  2,  yet  the  essential  part  of  it,  the  amusements, 
was  well  under  way  on  the  Sunday  before.  The  town 
began  to  be  filled  with  country  people,  and  the  holiday 
might  be  said  to  have  commenced  ;  for  the  city  gives 
itself  up  to  the  occasion.  The  new  art  galleries  are 
closed  for  some  days ;  but  the  collections  and  museums 
of  various  sorts  are  daily  open,  gratis;  the  theatres 
redouble  their  efforts ;  the  concert-halls  are  in  full  blast ; 
there  are  dances  nightly,  and  masked  balls  in  the  Folks' 
Theatre  ;  country  relatives  are  entertained  ;  the  peasants 
go  about  the  streets  in  droves,  in  a  simple  and  happy 
frame  of  mind,  wholly  unconscious  that  they  are  the 
oddest-looking  guys  that  have  come  down  from  the  Mid- 
dle Ages ;  there  is  music  in  all  the  gardens,  singing  in 
the  cafes,  beer  flowing  in  rivers,  and  a  mighty  smell  of 
cheese,  that  goes  up  to  heaven.  If  the  eating  of  cheese 
were  a  religious  act,  and  its  odor  an  incense,  I  could  not 
say  enough  of  the  devoutness  of  the  Bavarians. 

Of  the  picturesqueness  and  oddity  of  the  Bavarian 
peasants'  costumes,  nothing  but  a  picture  can  give  you 
any  idea.  You  can  imagine  the  men  in  tight  breeches, 
buttoned  below  the  knee,  jackets  of  the  jockey  cut,  and 
both  jacket  and  waistcoat  covered  with  big  metal  but- 
tons, sometimes  coins,  as  thickly  as  can  be  sewed  on : 
but  the  women  defy  the  pen;  a  Bavarian  peasant-woman, 
in  holiday  dress,  is  the  most  fearfully  and  wonderfully 
made  object  in  the  universe.  She  displays  a  good  length 
of  striped  stockings,  and  wears  thin  slippers,  or  sandals ; 
her  skirts  are  like  a  hogshead,  in  size  and  shape,  and 
reach  so  near  her  shoulders  as  to  make  her  appear  hump- 
backed ;  the  sleeves  are  hugely  swelled  out  at  the  shoul- 
der, and  taper  to  the  wrist ;  the  bodice  is  a  stiff  and  most 
elaborately-ornamented  piece  of  armor;  and  there  is  a 


THK  OCTOBER  FEST.  123 

kiinl  of  breastplate,  or  centre-piece,  of  gold,  silver,  and 
precious  stones,  or  what  passes  lor  them  ;  and  the  head 
is  adorned  with  sonic  monstrous  heirloom,  of  fmely- 
worked  nold  or  silver,  or  a  t->wer.  gilded  ami  shining 
wiih  long  Btreamors,  or  hound  in  a  simple  black  tnrhan, 
with  flowing  ends.  Little  old  girls,  dressed  like  their 
mothers,  have  the  air  of  creations  of  the  laney,  who  have, 
walked  out  of  a  fairy-hook.  There  is  an  endless  variety 
in  these  old  costumes;  and  one  sees,  every  moment,  one 
more  preposterous  than  the  preceding*  The  girls  from 
the  Tyrol,  with  their  bright  neckerchiefs  and  pointed 
black  lelt  hats,  with  gold  cord  and  tassels,  are  some  of 
them  very  pretty:  but  one  looks  a  long  time  for  a  bright 
face  among  the  other  elass  ;  and,  when  it  is  discovered, 
the  owner  appears  like  a  maiden  who  was  enchanted  a 
hundred  years  a-_ro,  and  has  not  been  released  Iroin  the 
spell,  but  is  still  doomed  to  wear  the  garments  and  the 
ornaments  that  should  long  ago  have  mouldered  away 
with  her  ancestors. 

The  Theresien  Wiese  was  a  city  of  Vanity  Fair  for 
two  weeks,  every  day  crowded  with  a  motley  throng. 
Booths,  and  even  structures  of  some  solidity,  rose  on  it 
as  if  by  magic.  The  lottery -houses  were  set  up  early, 
and,  to  the  last,  attracted  crowds,  who  could  not  resist 
the  tempting  display  of  goods  and  trinkets,  which  might 
be  won  by  investing  six  kreuzers  in  a  bit  of  paper,  which 
might,  when  unrolled,  contain  a  number.  These  lotter- 
ies are  all  authorized  :  some  of  them  were  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  agricultural  society;  some  were  for  the  poor, 
and  others  on  individual  account:  and  they  always 
thrive  ;  for  the  German,  above  all  others,  loves  to  try  his 
luck.  There  were  streets  of  shanties,  where  various 
things  were  offered  for  sale  besides  cheese  and  sausag«-<. 
There  was  a  long  line  of  booths,  where  images  could  be 
•  shot  at  with  bird-guns;  and,  when  the  shots  were  BUCC688* 
fill,  the  images  went  through  astonishing  revolutions. 
There  was  a  circus,  in  trout  of  which  some  of  the  span- 
gled perioriners  always  stood  beating  drums  and  pobtur 


124         THE  PEASANTS  AND  THE  KING. 

ing,  in  order  to  entice  in  spectators.  There  were  tho 
puppet-booths,  before  which  all  day  stood  gaping,  de 
lighted  crowds,  who  roared  with  laughter  whenever  the 
little  frau  beat  her  loutish  husband  about  the  head,  and 
set  him  to  tend  the  baby,  who  continued  to  wail,  not- 
withstanding the  man  knocked  its  head  against  the  door- 
post. There  were  the  great  beer-restaurants,  with  tem- 
porary benches  and  tables,  planted  about  with  evergreens, 
always  thronged  with  a  noisy,  jolly  crowd.  There  were 
the  fires,  over  which  fresh  fish  were  broiling  on  sticks  ; 
and,  if  you  lingered,  you  saw  the  fish  taken  alive  from 
tubs  of  water  standing  by,  dressed  and  rpitted  arid  broil- 
ing before  the  wiggle  was  out  of  their  tails.  There  were 
the  old  women  who  mixed  the  flour  and  fried  the  brown 
cakes  before  your  eyes,  or  cooked  the  fragrant  sausage, 
arid  offered  it  piping  hot. 

And  every  restaurant  and  show  had  its  band,  brass  or 
string,  —  a  full  array  of  red-faced  fellows  tooting  through 
horns,  or  a  sorry  quartet,  —  the  fat  woman  with  the 
harp,  the  lean  man  blowing  himself  out  through  the  clari- 
net, the  long-haired  fellow  with  the  flute,  and  the  robust 
and  thick-necked  fiddler.  Everywhere  there  was  music ; 
the  air  was  full  of  the  odor  of  cheese  and  cooking  sau- 
sage ;  so  that  there  was  nothing  wanting  to  the  most  com- 
plete enjoyment.  The  crowd  surged  round,  jammed  to- 
gether, in  the  best  possible  humor.  Those  who  could 
not  sit  at  tables  sat  on  the  ground,  with  a  link  of  an 
eatable  I  have  already  named  in  one  hand,  and  a  mug 
of  beer  beside  them.  Toward  evening,  the  ground  was 
strewn  with  these  gray  quart  mugs,  which  gave  as  per- 
fect evidence  of  the  battle  of  the  day  as  the  cannon-balls 
on  the  sand  before  Fort  Fisher  did  of  the  contest  there. 
Besides  this,  for  the  amusement  of  the  crowd,  there  is, 
every  day,  a  wheelbarrow  race,  a  sack  race,  a  blindfold 
contest,  or  something  of  the  sort,  which  turns  out  to  be 
a  very  flat  performance.  But,  all  the  time,  the  eating  an<l 
the  drinking  go  on,  and  the  clatter  and  clink  of  it  fill  tho 
Viir ;  so  that  the  great  object  of  the  fair  is  not  lost  sight  ot' 


77/7:  OCTOBER  FEST. 

M  •  .intime.  wh"iv  is  the  agricultural  fair  ;iiid 
fellow?  You  niu-t  know  that,  we  do  tin-si1  tlfm-s  dill'cr- 
t'utly  in  liavari  i.  ( )n  tin-  fair-ground,  there  N  very  lit- 
tle to  IK-  seen  of  tin*  tail-.  There  is  an  enclosure  where 
Steam-6ngine8  arc  smoking  and  pulling,  and  threshing- 
machines  an-  making  a  clamor;  where  some  hi-j;  church- 
bells  hams  and  where  there  are  a  lew  stalls  for  horsea 
and  cattle.  l>ut  the  competing  horses  and  cattle  an; 
led  before  the  judge*  elscwlu-ri1;  the  horses,  for  instance, 
by  the  royal  stables  in  the  city.  I  saw  no  such  general 
exhibition  of  domestic  animals  as  yon  have  at  your  lairs. 
The  horses  that  took  the  prizes  were  of  native  stock,  a 
very  serviceable  breed,  excellent  for  carriage-horses,  and 
admirable  in  the  cavalry  service.  The  bulls  and  cows 
seemed  also  native  and  to  the  manor  born,  and  were 
worthy  of  little  remark.  The.  mechanical,  vegetable, 
and  fruit  exhibition  was  in  the  ureat  ^lass  palace,  in  the 
city,  and  was  very  creditable  in  the  fruit  department,  —  in 
the  show  of  grapes  and  pears  especially.  The  products 
of  the  dairy  were  less,  though  I  saw  one  that  1  do  not 
recollect  ever  to  have  seen  in  America,  —  a  landscape  in 
butter.  Enclosed  in  a  case,  it  looked  very  much  like  a 
wood-earring.  There  was  a  Swiss  cottage,  a  milkmaid, 
with  cows  in  the  foreground  ;  there  were  trees,  and  in 
the  rear  rose  rocky  precipices,  with  chamois  in  the  act, 
of  skipping  thereon.  I  should  think  something  might  be 
done  in  our  country  in  this  line  of  the  line  arts:  cer- 
tainly, some  of  the  butter  that  is  always  being  sold  so 
cheap  at  St.  Albans,  when  it  is  hiuh  everywhere  else, 
must  be  strong  enough  to  warrant  the  attempt.  As  to 
the  other  departments  of  the  fine  arts  in  the  glass  palace, 
I  cannot  give  you  a  better  idea  of  them  than  by  saying 
that  they  were  as  well  filled  as  the  like  ones  in  the 
American  county  fairs.  There  wen-  machines  for 
threshing,  for  straw-cutting,  for  apple-paring,  and  gene- 
rally such  a  display  of  implements  as  would  -jive  one  a 
favorable  idea  of  I>  ivari  in  agriculture.  There  \va-  an 
interesting  exhibition  of  live  ilh,  great  and  small,  of 

n* 


126         THE  PEASANTS  AND  THE  KING. 

nearly  every  sort,  I  should  think,  in  Bavarian  waters 
The  show  in  the  fire-department  was  so  antiquated,  that 
I  was  convinced  that  the  people  of  Munich  never  intend 
to  have  any  fires. 

The  great  day  of  the  fete  was  Sunday,  Oct.  5  ;  for  on 
that  day  the  king  went  out  to  the  fair-ground,  and  dis- 
tributed the  prizes  to  the  owners  of  the  best  horses,  and, 
as  they  appeared  to  me,  of  the  most  ugly-colored  bulls. 
The  city  was  literally  crowded  with  peasants  and  coun- 
try people;  the  churches  were  full  all  the  morning  with 
devout  masses,  which  poured  into  the  waiting  beer- 
houses afterward  with  equal  zeal.  By  twelve  o'clock, 
the  city  began  to  empty  itself  upon  the  Theresien 
meadow ;  and  long  before  the  time  for  the  king  to  arrive 
—  two  o'clock  —  there  were  acres  of  people  waiting  for 
the  performance  to  begin.  The  terraced  bank,  of  which 
J  have  spoken,  was  taken  possession  of  early,  and  held 
by  a  solid  mass  of  people ;  while  the  fair-ground  proper 
was  packed  with  a  swaying  concourse,  densest  near  the 
royal  pavilion,  which  was  erected  immediately  on  the 
race-course,  and  opposite  the  bank. 

At  one  o'clock  the  grand  stand  opposite  to  the  royal 
one  is  taken  possession  of  by  a  regiment  band  and  by 
invited  guests.  All  the  space,  except  the  race-course, 
is,  by  this  time,  packed  with  people,  who  watch  the  red 
and  white  gate  at  the  head  of  the  course  with  growing 
impatience.  It  opens  to  let  in  a  regiment  of  infantry, 
which  marches  in  and  takes  position.  It  swings,  every 
now  and  then,  for  a  solitary  horseman,  who  gallops  down 
the  line  in  all  the  pride  of  mounted  civic  dignity,  to  the 
disgust  of  the  crowd ;  or  to  let  in  a  carriage,  with  some 
over-dressed  officer  or  splendid  minister,  who  is  entitled 
to  a  place  in  the  royal  pavilion.  It  is  a  people's  fete, 
and  the  civic  officers  enjoy  one  day  of  conspicuous 
glory.  Now  a  majestic  person  in  gold  lace  is  set  down ; 
and  now  one  in  a  scarlet  coat,  as  beautiful  as  a  flamingo. 
These  driblets  of  splendor  only  feed  the  popular  impa- 
Music  is  heard  in  the  distance,  and  a  processor 


THE  OCTOBER  FEST.  127 

with  colored  banners  is  seen   approaching  from   tin 
That,  like  every  thing  else  that,  is  to  come,  -tops    beyond 
the  closed  gate  ;  anil  theiv  it  halts,  reaily  to  stream  down 
before  our  eyes  in  a  variegated  pageant.      Tin:  lini<- 
on:   tin-  crowd   -ets  denser.  f.>r  there   have   hern   steady 
rivers  of  people,  pouring  into  the  grounds   tor  more   than 
an  hour.      The  military  bands  play  in  the  long  interval; 
the  peasants  jabber  in  unintelligible  dialects ;  the  high 
functionaries  on  the  royal  stand  are  uood  enough  to  move, 
around,  and  let  us  sec  how  brave  and  majestic  they  arc. 

At  last  the  firing  of  cannon  announces  the.  coming  of 
royalty.  There  is  a  commotion  in  the  vast  crowd  yonder, 
the  eagerly-watched  gates  swing  wide,  and  a  well-mounted 
company  of  cavalry  dashes  down  the  turf,  in  uniforms  of 
light  blue  and  gold.  It  is  a  citizen's  company  of  butch- 
ers and  bakers  and  candlestick-makers,  which  would  do 
no  discredit  to  the  regular  army.  Driving  close  utter  is 
a  four-horse  carriage  with  two  of  the  king's  ministers; 
and  then,  at  a  rapid  pace,  six  coal-black  horses  in  silver 
harness,  with  mounted  postilions,  drawing  a  long,  slen- 
der, open  carriage  with  one  seat,  in  which  ride  the  king 
and  his  brother,  Prince  Otto,  come  down  the  way,  and 
are  pulled  up  in  front  of  the  pavilion ;  while  the  cannon 
roars,  the  big  bells  ring,  all  the  flags  of  Bavaria,  Prussia, 
and  Austria,  on  innumerable  poles,  are  blowing  straight 
out,  the  band  plays  "  God  save  the  King,"  the  people  break 
into  enthusiastic  shouting,  and  the  young  king,  throwing 
off  his  cloak,  rises  and  stands  in  his  carriage  for  a 
moment,  bowing  right  and  left  before  lie  descends.  lie 
wears  to-day  the  simple  uniform  of  the  citizens' companv 
which  hns  escorted  him,  and  is  consequently  more  plainly 
and  neatly  dressed  than  any  one  else  on  the  platform,  —  a 
tall  (say  six  feet),  slender,  gallant-looking  young  fellow 
of  three  and  twenty,  with  an  open  face  and  a  graceful 
manner. 

But,  when  he  has  arrived,  things  again  come  to  a  stand  ; 
and  we  wait  tor  an  hour,  and  watch  the  thickening  of 
the  clouds,  while  the  king  goes  from  this  to  that  delighted 


128         THE  PEASANTS  AND  THE  KING. 

dignitary  on  the  stand  and  converses.  At  the  end  of 
this  time,  there  is  a  movement.  A  white  dog  has  got 
into  the  course,  and  runs  up  and  down  between  the 
walls  of  people  in  terror,  headed  off  by  soldiers  at 
either  side  of  the  grand  stand,  and  finally,  becoming 
desperate,  he  makes  a  dive  for  the  royal  pavilion.  The 
consternation  is  extreme.  The  people  cheer  the  dog  and 
laugh  :  a  white-handed  official,  in  gold  lace,  and  without 
his  hat,  rushes  out  to  "  shoo  "  the  dog  away,  but  is  unsuc- 
cessful ;  for  the  animal  dashes  between  his  legs,  and 
approaches  the  royal  and  carpeted  steps.  More  men  of 
rank  run  at  him,  and  he  is  finally  captured  and  borne 
away ;  and  we  all  breathe  freer  that  the  danger  to  royalty 
is  averted.  At  one  o'clock  six  youths  in  white  jackets, 
with  clubs  and  coils  of  rope,  had  stationed  themselves  by 
the  pavilion,  but  they  did  not  go  into  action  at  this 
juncture ;  and  I  thought  they  rather  enjoyed  the  activity 
of  the  great  men  who  kept  off  the  dog. 

At  length  there  was  another  stir ;  and  the  king  de- 
scended from  the  rear  of  his  pavilion,  attended  by  his 
ministers,  and  moved  about  among  the  people,  who  made 
way  for  him,  and  uncovered  at  his  approach.  He  spoke 
with  one  and  another,  and  strolled  about  as  his  fancy 
took  him.  I  suppose  this  is  called  mingling  with  the 
common  people.  After  he  had  mingled  about  fifteen 
minutes,  he  returned,  and  took  his  place  on  the  steps  in 
front  of  the  pavilion;  and  the  distribution  of  prizes 
began.  First  the  horses  were  led  out ;  and  their  owners, 
approaching  the  king,  received  from  his  hands  the  diplo- 
mas, and  a  flag  from  an  attendant.  Most  of  them  were 
peasants;  and  they  exhibited  no  servility  in  receiving 
their  marks  of  distinction,  but  bowed  to  the  king  as 
they  would  to  any  other  man,  and  his  majesty  touched 
his  cocked  hat  in  return.  Then  came  the  prize-cattle, 
many  of  them  led  by  women,  who  are  as  interested  as 
their  husbands  in  all  farm  matters.  Every  thing  goes 
off  smoothly,  except  there  is  a  momentary  panic  over  a 
fractious  bull,  who  plunges  into  the  crowd  ;  but  the  six 


THE  OCTOBER  PEST.  129 

white  jackets  are  about  liini  in  an  instant,  and  entangle 
him  whh  their  ropes. 

This  over,  tin-  gates  again  open,  and  tin1  -ja\  < 
cade  that  has  been  so  long  in  sight  approaches.  Fir.-t 
a  band  of  musicians  in  costncies  (,t'  tin-  Middle 
and  then  a  band  of  pages  in  the,  gayest  apparel,  bearing 
pictured  banners  and  llags  of  all  colors,  whose  silken 
lustre  would  have  been  gorgeous  in  sunshine;  these 
W«TC  followed  by  mounted  heralds  with  trumpets,  and 
after  them  were  led  the  running  horses  entered  for  the 
race.  The  banners  go  upon  the  royal  stand,  and  group 
themselves  picturesquely  ;  the  heralds  disappear  at  the 
other  end  of  the  list;  and  almost  immediately  the  horses, 
ridden  by  young  joekeys  in  stunning  colors,  come  Hying 
past  in  a  general  scramble.  There  are  a  dozen  or  more 
horses;  but,  after  the  first  round,  the  race  lies  between 
two.  The  course  is  considerably  over  an  English  mile, 
and  they  make  four  circuits;  so  that  the  race  is  fully  six 
miles,  —  a  very  hard  one.  It  was  a  run  in  a  rain,  how- 
ever, which  began  when  it  did,  and  soon  forced  up  the 
umbrellas.  The  vast  crowd  disappeared  under  a  shed  of 
umbrellas,  of  all  colors,  —  black,  green,  red,  blue;  and 
the  effect  was  very  singular,  especially  when  it  moved  from 
the  field:  there  was  then  a  Niagara  of  umbrellas.  The 
race  was  soon  over  :  it  is  only  a  peasants'  race,  after  all ; 
the  aristocratic  races  of  the  best  horses  take  place  in 
May.  It  was  over.  The  king's  carriage  was  brought 
round,  the  people  again  shouted,  the  cannon  roared,  the 
six  black  horses  reared  and  plunged,  and  away  he 
went. 

"  After  all,"  says  the  artist,  "  the  King  of  Bavaria  has 
not  much  power." 

"  You  can  see,"  returns  a  gentleman  who  speaks  Eng- 
lish, "just  how  much  he  has  :  it  is  a  six-horse  power." 

On  other  days  there  was  horse-trotting,  music  produc- 
tion, and  lor  several  days  pri/e-shooting.  The  latter  was 
admirably  conducted:  the  targets  were  placet!  at  the 
foot  of  the  bank  ;  iind  opposite,  I  should  think  not  more 


130         THE  PEASANTS  AND  THE  KING. 

than  two  hundred  yards  off,  were  shooting-houses,  each 
with  a  room  for  the  register  of  the  shots,  and  on  each  side 
of  him  closets  where  the  shooters  stand.  Signal-wires  run 
from  these  houses  to  the  targets,  where  there  are  attend- 
ants who  telegraph  the  effect  of  every  shot.  Each  com- 
petitor has  a  little  book;  and  he  shoots  at  any  booth  he 
pleases,  or  at  all,  and  has  his  shots  registered.  There 
was  a  continual  fusillade  for  a  couple  of  days ;  but  what 
it  all  came  to,  I  cannot  tell.  I  can  only  say,  that,  if  they 
shoot  as  steadily  as  they  drink  beer,  there  is  no  other 
corps  of  shooters  that  can  stand  before  them. 


INDIAN   SUMMER. 

WE  are  all  quiet  along  the  Isar  since  the  October 
Fest;  since  the  young  king  has  come  hack  from 
his  summer  castle  on  the  Starnberg  See  to  live  in  his 
dingy  palace;  since  the  opera  has  got  into  good  work- 
ing order,  and  the  regular  indoor  concerts  at  the  cajl'x  have 
begun.  There  is  no  lack  of  amusements,  with  balls, 
theatres,  and  the  cheap  concerts,  vocal  and  instrumental. 
I  stepped  into  the  West  Ende  Halle  the  other  night, 
having  first  surrendered  twelve  kreuzers  to  the  money- 
changer at  the  entrance, — double  the  usual  fee,  by  the 
way.  It  was  large  and  well  lighted,  with  a  gallery  all 
round  it  and  an  orchestral  platform  at  one  end.  The 
floor  and  gallery  were  filled  with  people  of  the  most 
respectable  class,  who  sat  about  little  round  tables,  and 
drank  beer.  Every  man  was  smoking  a  cigar  ;  and  the 
atmosphere  was  of  that  degree  of  haziness  that  we  asso- 
ciate with  Indian  summer  at  home ;  so  that  through  it 
the  people  in  the  gallery  appeared  like  glorified  objects 
in  a  heathen  Pantheon,  and  the  orchestra  like  men  plav- 
ing  in  a  dream.  Yet  nobody  seemed  to  mind  it ;  and 
there  was,  indeed,  a  general  air  of  social  enjoyment  and 
good  feeling.  Whether  this  good  feeling  was  in  process 
of  Ix-iii'i  produced  by  the  twelve  or  twenty  glasses  of 
beer  which  it  is  not  unusual  for  a  German  to  drink 
of  an  evening,  I  do  not  know.  "  I  do  not  drink  much 
beer  now,"  said  a  German  acquaintance,  —  "  not  more 
than  four  or  five  glasses  in  an  evening."  This  is  indeed 
moderation,  when  we  remember  that  sixteen  glasses  of 

131 


132  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

beer  is  only  two  gallons.  The  orchestra  playing  that 
night  was  Gungl's;  and  it  performed,  among  other 
things,  the  whole  of  the  celebrated  Third  (or  Scotch) 
Symphony  u°  Mendelssohn  in  a  manner  that  would  be 
greatly  to  the  credit  of  orchestras  that  play  without  the 
aid  of  either  smoke  or  beer.  Concerts  of  this  sort,  gen- 
erally with  more  popular  music  and  a  considerable  dash 
of  Wagner,  in  whom  the  Munichers  believe,  take  place 
every  night  in  several  cafes  ;  while  comic  singing,  some 
of  it  exceedingly  well  done,  can  be  heard  in  others. 
Such  amusements  —  and  nothing  can  be  more  harm- 
less —  are  very  cheap. 

Speaking  of  Indian  summer,  the  only  approach  to  it 
I  have  seen  was  in  the  hazy  atmosphere  at  the  West 
Ende  Halle.  October  outdoors  has  been  an  almost 
totally  disagreeable  month,  with  the  exception  of  some 
days,  or  rather  parts  of  days,  when  we  have  seen  the  sun, 
and  experienced  a  mild  atmosphere.  At  such  times, 
I  have  liked  to  sit  down  on  one  of  the  empty  benches  in 
the  Hof  Garden,  where  the  leaves  already  half  cover  the 
ground,  and  the  dropping  horse-chestnuts  keep  up  a 
pattering  on  them.  Soon  the  fat  woman  who  has  a 
iruit-stand  at  the  gate  is  sure  to  come  waddling  along, 
her  beaming  face  making  a  sort  of  illumination  in  the 
autumn  scenery,  and  sit  down  near  me.  As  soon  as  she 
comes,  the  little  brown  birds  and  the  doves  all  fly  that 
way,  and  look  up  expectant  at  her.  They  all  know  her, 
and  expect  the  usual  supply  of  bread-crumbs.  Indeed, 
I  have  seen  her  on  a  still  Sunday  morning,  when  I  have 
been  sitting  there  waiting  for  the  English  ceremony  of 
praying  for  Queen  Victoria  and  Albert  Edward  to  begin 
in  the  Odeon,  sit  for  an  hour,  and  cut  up  bread  for  her 
little  brown  flock.  She  sits  now  knitting  a  red  stocking, 
the  picture  of  content ;  one  after  another  her  old  gossips 
pass  that  way,  and  stop  a  moment  to  exchange  the  chat 
of  the  day ;  or  the  policeman  has  his  joke  with  her ; 
and,  when  there  is  nobody  else  to  converse  with,  she 
talks  to  the  birds.  A  benevolent  old  soul,  I  am  sure, 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  1 33 

who,  in  a  New-England  village,  would  be  universally 
called  '*  Aunty,"  and  would  lay  all  the  rising  generation 
under  obligation  to  her  for  doughnuts  and  sweet-cake. 
As  she  rises  to  go  away,  she  scrapes  together  a  hall- 
do/en  shining  chestnuts  with  her  feet;  and,  as  she  cannot 
possibly  stoop  to  pick  them  up,  she  motions  to  a  boy 
playing  near,  and  smiles  so  happily  as  the  urchin  gathers 
them  and  runs  away  without  even  a  "  thank-ye." 


A  TASTE  OF  ULTRAMONTANISM. 

XF  that  of  which  every  German  dreams,  and  so  few 
are  ready  to  take  any  practical  steps  to  attain,  — 
German  unity,  —  ever  comes,  it  must  ride  rough-shod 
over  the  Romish  clergy,  for  one  thing.  Of  course  there 
are  other  obstacles.  So  long  as  beer  is  cheap,  and  songs 
of  the  Fatherland  are  set  to  lilting  strains,  will  these  excel- 
lent people  "  Ho,  ho,  my  brothers,"  and  "  Hi,  hi,  my 
brothers,"  and  wait  for  fate,  in  the  shape  of  some  com- 
pelling Bismarck,  to  drive  them  into  any  thing  more  than 
the  brotherhood  of  brown  mugs  of  beer  and  Wagner's 
mysterious  music  of  the  future.  I  am  not  sure,  by  the 
way,  that  the  music  of  Richard  Wagner  is  not  highly 
typical  of  the  present  (in  1868)  state  of  German  unity, 
—  an  undefined  longing  which  nobody  exactly  under- 
stands. There  are  those  who  think  they  can  discern 
in  his  music  the  same  revolutionary  tendency  which 
placed  the  composer  on  the  right  side  of  a  Dresden  bar- 
ricade in  1848,  and  who  go  so  far  as  to  believe  that  the 
liberalism  of  the  young  King  of  Bavaria  is  not  a  little 
due  to  his  passion  for  the  disorganizing  operas  of  this 
transcendental  writer.  Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  any 
other  people  than  Germans  would  not  find  in  the  repe- 
tition of  the  five  hours  of  the  Meister-Sanger  von 
Niirnberg,  which  was  given  the  other  night  at  the  Hof 
Theatre,  sufficient  reason  for  revolution. 

Well,  what  I  set  out  to  say  was,  that  most  Germans 
would  like  unity  if  they  could  be  the  unit.     Each  State 
would  like  to  be  the  centre  of  the  consolidated  system 
134 


A   TASTE  OF  ULTRAMONTANISM.         135 

an<l  thus  it  happens  that  every  practical  step  toward 
political  unity  meets  a  host  of  opponents  at  once.  When 
Austria,  or  rather  the  house  of  Elapoburg,  had  a  pre- 
ponderance in  the  Dirt,  and  it  seemed,  under  it,  possible; 
to  revive  the  past  reality,  or  to  reali/e  the  dream  of  a 
great  (ii-rman  empire,  it,  was  clearly  seen  that  Austria 
was  a  tyranny  thai  would  crush  out  all  liberties.  And 
now  that  Prussia,  with  its  vital  Protestantism  and  free 
schools,  proposes  to  undertake  the  reconstruction  of 
derma  ny,  and  irake  a  nation  where  there  are  now 
only  the  fragment  iry  possibilities  of  a  great  power,  why, 
Prussia  is  a  military  despot,  whose  subjects  must  be 
either  soldiers  01  slaves,  and  the  young  emperor  at 
Vienna  is  indeed  another  Joseph,  filled  with  the  most 
tender  solicitude  for  the  welfare  of  the  chosen  German 
people. 

But  to  return  to  the  clergy.  While  the  monasteries 
and  nunneries  are  going  to  the  ground  in  superstition- 
saturated  Spain  ;  while  eager  workmen  are  demolishing 
the  last  hiding-places  of  monkery,  and  letting  the  day- 
light into  places  that  have  well  kept  the  frightful  secrets 
cf  thr.'e  hundred  years,  and  turning  the  ancient  cloister 
demesne  into  public  parks  and  pleasure-grounds,  —  the 
Romish  priesthood  here,  in  free  Bavaria,  seem  to  imagine 
that  they  cannot  only  resist  the  progress  of  events,  but 
that  they  can  actually  bring  back  the  owlish  twilight  of 
the  Middle  A^es.  The  reactionary  party  in. Bavaria 
has,  in  some  of  the  provinces,  a  strong  majority ;  and  its 
supporters  and  newspapers  are  belligerent  and  aggres- 
sive. A  few  words  about  the  politics  of  Bavaria  will 
give  you  a  clew  to  the  general  politics  of  the  country. 

The  reader  of  the  little  newspapers  here  in  Munich 
finds  evidence  of  at  least  three  parties.  There  is  first 
the  radical.  Its  'iiembers  sincerely  desire  a  united  Ger- 
many, and,  of  course,  are  friendly  to  Prussia,  hate  Napo- 
leon, have  little  confidence  in  the  Ilapshurgs,  like  to 
read  of  uneasiness  in  Paris,  and  hail  any  movement  that 
overthrows  tradition  and  the  prescriptive  right  of  classes, 


136         A  TASTE  OF  ULTRAMONTANISM. 

If  its  members  are  Catholic,  they  are  very  mildly  so 
if  they  are  Protestant,  they  are  not  enough  so  to  harm 
them;  and,  in  short,  if  their  religious  opinions  are  not 
as  deep  as  a  well,  they  are  certainly  broader  than  a 
church-door.  They  are  the  party  of  free  inquiry,  liberal 
thought,  and  progress.  Akin  to  them  are  what  may  be 
called  the  conservative  liberals,  the  majority  of  whom 
may  be  Catholics  in  profession,  but  are  most  likely 
rationalists  in  fact :  and  with  this  party  the  king  natu- 
rally affiliates,  taking  his  music  devoutly  every  Sunday 
morning  in  the  Allerheiligenkirche,  attached  to  tho 
Residenz,  and  getting  his  religion  out  of  Wagner ;  for, 
progressive  as  the  youthful  king  is,  he  cannot  be  sup- 
posed to  long  for  a  unity  which  should  wheel  his  throne 
off  into  the  limbo  of  phantoms.  The  conservative  liberals, 
therefore,  while  laboring  for  thorough  internal  reforms, 
look  with  little  delight  on  the  increasing  strength  of 
Prussia,  and  sympathize  with  the  present  liberal  tenden- 
cies of  Austria.  Opposed  to  both  these  parties  is  the 
ultramontane,  the  head  of  which  is  the  Romish  hie- 
rarchy, and  the  body  of  which  is  the  inert  mass  of  igno- 
rant peasantry,  over  whom  the  influence  of  the  clergy 
seems  little  shaken  by  any  of  the  modern  moral  earth- 
quakes. Indeed,  I  doubt  if  any  new  ideas  will  ever  pene- 
trate a  class  of  peasants  who  still  adhere  to  styles  of 
costume  that  must  have  been  ancient  when  the  Turks 
threatened  Vienna,  which  Avould  be  highly  picturesque  if 
they  were  not  painfully  ugly,  and  arrayed  in  which  their 
possessors  walk  about  in  the  broad  light  of  these  latter 
days,  with  entire  unconsciousness  that  they  do  not  belong 
to  this  age,  and  that  their  appearance  is  as  much  of  an 
anachronism  as  if  the  figures  should  step  out  of  Holbein's 
pictures  (which  Heaven  forbid),  or  the  stone  images 
come  down  from  the  portals  of  the  cathedral,  and  walk 
about.  The  ultramontane  party,  which,  so  far  as  it  is 
an  intelligent  force  in  modern  affairs,  is  the  Romish 
clergy,  and  nothing  more,  hears  with  aversion  any  hint 
of  German  unity,  listens  with  dread  to  the  needle-guns 


A  TASTE  OF  ULTRAMONTANISM.  137 

nt  Sadowa.  hates  Prussia  in  proportion  as  it  fears  her, 
and  just  now  does  not  draw  cither  with  the  Austrian 
(iovernnient,  vhose  li'heral  tendencies  an-  exceed'nuily 
disiasU't'iil.  It  relies  upon  that  great  unenlightened 
mass  of  Catholic  peoj)le  in  Southern  (rermany  and  in 
Austria  proper,  one  of  whose  sins  is  certainly  not  scep- 
•irism.  The  practical  light  now  in  Bavaria  is  on  the 
(jiiestion  of  education  ;  the  priests  being  resolved  to  keep 
tlie  schools  of  the  people  in  their  own  control,  and  the, 
liberal  parties  seeking  to  widen  educational  facilities  and 
admit  laymen  to  a  share  in  the  management  of  institu- 
tions of  learning.  Now  the  school  visitors  must  all  bo 
ecclesiastics;  and  although  their  power  is  not  to  be 
dreaded  in  the  cities,  where  teachers,  like  other  citizens, 
are  apt  to  be  liberal,  it  skives  them  immense  power  in  the 
rural  districts.  The  election  of  the  Lower  House  of  the 
Bavarian  parliament,  whose  members  have  a  six  years' 
tenure  of  office,  which  takes  place  next  spring,  excites 
uncommon  interest;  for  the  leading  issue  will  be  that  of 
education.  The  little  local  newspapers  —  and  every  city 
has  a  small  swarm  of  them,  which  are  remarkable  for  the 
absence  of  news,  and  an  abundance  of  advertisements  — 
have  broken  out  into  a  style  of  personal  controversy, 
which,  to  put  it  mildly,  makes  me,  an  American,  feel 
quite  at  home.  Both  parties  are  very  much  in  earnest, 
and  both  speak  with  a  freedom  that  is,  in  itself,  a  very 
hopeful  sign. 

The  pretensions  of  the  ultramontane  clergy  are,  indeed, 
remarkable  enough  to  attract  the  attention  of  others 
besides  the  liberals  of  Bavaria.  They  assume  an  influence 
and  an  importance  in  the  ecclesiastical  profession,  or 
rather  an  authority,  equal  to  that  ever  asserted  by  the 
Church  in  it?  strongest  days.  Perhaps  you  will  get  an 
idea  of  the  height  of  this  pretension  if  I  translate  a  pas- 
sage which  the  liberal  journal  here  takes  from  a  sermon 
preached  in  the  parish  church  of  Eberslmrj;,  in  Ohcr- 
Dorfen,  by  a  priest,  Ilerr  Kooperator  Anton  Ilaring,  no 
longer  ago  than  Aug.  1G,  1808.  It  reads,  "  With  the 
12* 


138          A   TASTE  OF  ULTRAMONTANISM. 

power  of  absolution,  Christ  has  endued  the  priesthood 
with  a  might  which  is  terrible  to  hell,  and  against  which 
Lucifer  himself  cannot  stand,  —  a  might  which,  indeed, 
reaches  over  into  eternity,  where  till  other  earthly  pow- 
ers find  their  limit  and  end,  —  a  might,  I  say,  which 
is  able  to  break  the  fetters  which,  for  an  eternity,  were 
forged  through  the  commission  ot  heavy  sin.  Yes,  fur- 
ther, this  power  of  the  forgiveness  of  sins  makes  the 
priest,  in  a  certain  measure,  a  second  God ;  for  God 
alone  naturally  can  forgive  sins.  And  yet  this  is  not  the 
highest  reach  of  the  priestly  might :  his  power  reaches 
still  higher ;  he  compels  God  himself  to  serve  him.  How 
so  V  When  the  priest  approaches  the  altar,  in  order  to 
bring  there  the  holy  mass-offering,  there,  at  that  moment, 
lifts  himself  up  Jesus  Christ,  who  sits  at  the  right  hand 
of  the  Father,  upon  his  throne,  in  order  to  be  ready  for 
the  beck  of  his  priests  upon  earth.  And  scarcely  does 
the  priest  begin  the  words  of  consecration,  than  there 
Christ  already  hovers,  surrounded  by  the  heavenly  host, 
come  down  from  heaven  to  earth,  and  to  the  altar  of 
sacrifice,  and  changes,  upon  the  words  of  the  priest,  the 
bread  and  wine  into  his  holy  flesh  and  blood,  and  per- 
mits himself  then  to  be  taken  up  and  to  lie  in  the  hands 
of  the  priest,  even  though  the  priest  is  the  most  sinful 
and  the  most  unworthy.  Further,  his  power  surpasses 
that  of  the  highest  archangels,  and  of  the  Queen  of 
Heaven.  Right  did  the  holy  Franciscus  say,  *  If  I 
should  meet  a  priest  and  an  angel  at  the  same  time,  I 
should  salute  the  priest  first,  and  then  the  angel ;  because 
the  priest  is  possessed  of  far  higher  might  and  holiness 
than  the  angel.' " 

The  radical  journal  calls  this  "ultramontane  blas- 
phemy," and,  the  day  after  quoting  it,  adds  a  charge 
that  must  be  still  more  annoying  to  the  Herr  Kooporator 
Haring  than  that  of  blasphemy  :  it  accuses  him  of  pla- 
giarism; and,  to  substantiate  the  charge,  quotes  almost 
the  very  same  language  from  a  sermon  preached  in  1 785. 
In  this  i\  is  boldly  claimed  that  "  in  heaven,  on  earth,  or 


A  TASTE  OF  ULTRAMONTANISM.        139 

under  the  earth,  there  is  nothing  mightier  than  a  priest, 
t'xrrpt  (lud;  ami,  to  he  exact,  (iod  himself  must  obe) 
tlu'  priest,  in  the  mass."  And  then,  in  words  which  1 
do  nut  (.-are  to  translate,  the  priest  is  made  greater  than 
the  Virgin  Mary,  because,  Christ  was  only  horn  of  the 
Virgin  onee,  while  the  priest  u  with  live  words,  as  often 
and  wherever  he  will,"  can  "  bring  forth  the  Saviour  ot '  tlm 
world."  So  to-day  keeps  firm  hold  of  the  traditions  of 
a  hundred  years  ago,  and  ultramontanism  wisely  de- 
fends the  last  citadel  where  the  Middle-Age  super- 
stition makes  a  stand,  —  the  popular  veneration  for  tho 
clergy. 

And  the  clergy  take  good  care  to  keep  up  the  pomps 
and  shows  even  here  in  sceptical  Munich.  It  was  my 
inestimable  privilege  the  other  morning  —  it  was  All- 
Saints'  Day — to  see  the  archbishop  in  the  old  Frauen- 
kirche,  the  ancient  cathedral,  where  hang  tattered  ban- 
ners that  were  captured  from  the  Turks  three  centuries 
ago,  —  to  see  him  seated  in  the  choir,  overlooked  by 
saints  and  apostles  carved  in  wood  by  some  forgotten 
artist  of  the  fifteenth  century.  I  supposed  he  was  at 
least  an  archbishop,  from  the  retinue  of  priests  who 
attended  and  served  him,  and  also  from  his  great  size. 
When  he  sat  down,  it  required  a  dignitary  of  considerable 
rank  to  put  on  his  hat ;  and,  when  he  arose  to  speak  a  few 
precious  words,  the  effect  was  visible  a  good  many  yards 
from  where  he  stood.  At  the  close  of  the  service  he 
went  in  great  state  down  the  centre  aisle,  preceded  by 
the  gorgeous  beadle  —  a  character  that  is  always  awe- 
inspiring  to  me  in  these  churches,  being  a  cross  between 
a  magnificent  drum-major  and  a  verger  —  and  two  per- 
sons in  livery,  and  followed  by  a  train  of  splendidly- 
attired  priests,  six  of  whom  bore  up  his  long  train  of 
purple  silk.  The  whole  cortege  was  resplendent  in 
embroidery  and  ermine  ;  and  as  the  great  man  swept 
out  of  my  sight,  and  was  carried  on  a  priestly  wave  into 
his  shining  carriage,  and  the  noble  footman  jumped  up 
behind,  and  he  rolled  away  to  his  dinner,  I  stood  Isan- 


140         A  TASTE  OF  ULTRAMONTANISM. 

ing  against  a  pillar,  and  reflected  if  it  could  be  possible 
that  that  religion  could  be  any  thing  but  genuine  which 
had  so  much  genuine  ermine.  And  the  organ-notes, 
rolling  down  the  arches,  seemed  to  me  to  have  a  very 
ultramontane  sound. 


CHANGING  QUARTERS. 

PERHAPS  it  may  not  interest  you  to  know  how  we 
moved,  that  is,  changed  our  apartments.  I  did  not 
fee  it  mentioned  in  the  cable-  despatches,  and  it  may  nut  In; 
generally  known,  even  in  (iermany;  but,  then,  the  cabin 
i>  M)  occupied  with  relating  how  his  Serenity  this,  and  his 
Highness  that,  and  her  Loftiness  the  other  one,  went  out 
doors  and  came  in  again,  owing  to  a  slight  superfluity  of 
the  liquid  element  in  the  atmosphere,  that  it  has  no  time 
to  notice  the  real  movements  of  the  people.  And  yet, 
so  dry  are  some  of  these  little  German  newspapers  of 
news,  that  it  is  refreshing  to  read,  now  and  then,  that  the 
king,  on  Sunday,  walked  out  with  the  Duke  of  Il< -->e 
after  dinner  (one  would  like  to  know  if  they  also  had 
sauer-kraut  and  sausage),  and  that  his  prospective  mother- 
in-law,  the  Empress  of  Russia,  who  was  here  the  other 
day,  on  her  way  home  from  Como,  where  she  was  nearly 
drowned  out  by  the  inundation,  sat  for  an  hour  on  Sun- 
day night,  after  the  opera,  in  the  winter  garden  of  the 
palace,  enjoying  the  most  easy  family  intercourse. 

But  about  moving.  Let  me  tell  you  that  to  change 
quarters  in  the  face  of  a  Munich  winter,  which  arrive-? 
here  the  1st  of  November,  is  like  chan'_ring  front  to  the 
enemy  just  before  a  battle  ;  and,  if  we  had  perished  in  the 
attempt,  it  miirht  have  been  put  upon  our  monuments,  as 
it  is  upon  the  out-of-cannon-cast  obelisk  in  the  Karolina, 
Platz,  erected  to  the  memory  of  the  thirty  thousand  15a- 
varian  soldiers  who  lell  in  the  disastrous  Russian  winter 

eanipaign  of  Napoleon,  fighting  against  all  the  iut> 

141 


142  CHANGING  QUARTERS. 

of  Germany,  —  "  they,  too,  died  for  theii  Fatherland.' 
Bavaria  happened  also  to  fight  on  the  wrong  side  at  Sa- 
dowa,  and  I  suppose  that  those  who  fell  there  also  died 
for  Fatherland  :  it  is  a  way  the  Germans  have  of  doing, 
and  they  mean  nothing  serious  by  it.  But,  as  I  was  say- 
ing, to  change  quarters  here  as  late  as  November  is  a 
little  difficult,  for  the  wise  ones  seek  to  get  housed  for 
the  winter  by  October  :  they  select  the  sunny  apartments, 
get  on  the  double-windows,  and  store  up  wood.  The 
plants  are  tied  up  in  the  gardens,  the  fountains  are  cov- 
ered over,  and  the  inhabitants  go  about  in  furs  and  the 
heaviest  winter  clothing  long  before  we  should  think  of 
doing  so  at  home.  And  they  are  wise  :  the  snow  comes 
early,  and,  besides,  a  cruel  fog,  cold  as  the  grave  and 
penetrating  as  remorse,  comes  down  out  of  the  near 
Tyrol.  One  morning  early  in  November,  I  looked  out 
of  the  window  to  find  snow  falling,  and  the  ground  cov- 
ered with  it.  There  was  dampness  and  frost  enough  in 
the  air  to  make  it  cling  to  all  the  tree-twigs,  and  to  take 
fantastic  shapes  on  all  the  queer  roofs  and  the  slenderest 
pinnacles  and  most  delicate  architectural  ornamenta- 
tions. The  city  spires  had  a  mysterious  appearance  in 
the  gray  haze  ;  and  above  all,  the  round-topped  towers  of 
the  old  Frauen  Kircke,  frosted  with  a  little  snow,  loomed 
up  more  grandly  than  ever.  When  I  went  around  to 
the  Hof  Garden,  where  I  late  had  sat  in  the  sun,  and 
heard  the  brown  horse-chestnuts  drop  on  the  leaves,  the 
benches  were  now  full  of  snow,  and  the  fat  and  friendly 
fruit-woman  at  the  gate  had  retired  behind  glass  windows 
into  a  little  shop,  which  she  might  well  warm  by  her 
own  person,  if  she  radiated  heat  as  readily  as  she  used 
to  absorb  it  on  the  warm  autumn  days,  when  I  have 
marked  her  knitting  in  the  sunshine. 

But  we  are  not  moving.  The  first  step  we  took  was 
to  advertise  our  wants  in  the  "  Neueste  Nachrichten," 
("  Latest  News  ")  newspaper.  We  desired,  if  possible, 
admission  into  some  respectable  German  family,  where 
we  should  be  forced  to  speak  German,  and  in  which  our 


CHANGING  QUARTERS.  143 

society,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  would  be  some  compen>a- 
tiun  lor  our  had  grammar.  \Ve  wished  also  to  live  in 
the  central  part  of  the  city, —  in  short,  in  tin-  immediatu 
neighborhood  of  all  the  ohjeets  of  interest  (which  aro 
licrc  verv  much  scattered),  and  to  have  pleasant  rooms 
In  Dresden,  where  the  people  are  not  so  rich  as  in  Mu 
n it-li,  and  where  di He. rent  eustoms  prevail,  it  is  custom- 
ary for  the  best  people,  I  mean  the  families  of  univei>itv 
professors,  for  instance,  to  take  in  foreigners,  and  -/mi 
them  tolerable  food  and  a  liberal  education.  Here  it  is 
otherwise.  Nearly  all  families  occupy  one  floor  of  a 
building,  renting  just  rooms  enough  for  the  family,  so 
that  their  apartments  are  not  elastic  enough  to  take  in 
strangers,  even  if  they  desire  to  do  so.  And  generally 
they  do  not.  Munich  society  is  perhaps  chargeable  with 
being  a  little  stiff  and  exclusive.  Well,  we  advertised 
in  the  "  Neueste  Nachrichten."  This  is  the  liberal  paper 
of  Munich.  It  is  a  poorly-printed,  black-looking  daily 
sheet,  folded  in  octavo  size,  and  containing  anywhere 
from  sixteen  to  thirty-four  pages,  more  or  less,  as  it  hap- 
pens to  have  advertisements.  It  sometimes  will  not  have 
more  than  two  or  three  pages  of  reading  matter.  There 
will  be  a  scrap  or  two  of  local  news,  the  brief  telegrams 
taken  from  the  official  paper  of  the  day  before,  a  bit  or 
two  of  other  news,  and  perhaps  a  short  and  slashing  edi- 
torial on  the  ultramontane  party.  The  advantage  of 
printing  and  folding  it  in  such  small  leaves  is,  that  the 
size  can  be  varied  according  to  the  demands  of  adver- 
tisements or  news  (if  the  German  papers  ever  find  out 
what  that  is)  :  so  that  the  publisher  is  always  giving, 
every  day,  just  what  it  pays  to  give  that  day  ;  and  the, 
reader  has  his  regular  quantity  of  reading  matter,  and 
does  not  have  to  pay  tor  advertising  space,  which  in 
journals  of  unchangeable  iorm  cannot  always  he  used 
profitably.  This  little  journal  was  started  something 
tike  twenty  years  ago.  It  probably  spends  little  for  ne\\s 
has  only  one  or,  at  most,  two  editors,  is  crowded  with 
advertisements,  which  are  inserted  cheap,  and  costs,  de- 


144  CHANGING  QUARTERS. 

livered,  a  little  over  six  francs  a  year.  It  circulates  in 
the  city  some  thirty-five  thousand.  There  is  another 
little  paper  here  of  the  same  size,  but  not  so  many  leaves, 
called  "  The  Daily  Advertiser,"  with  nothing  but  adver- 
tisements, principally  of  theatres,  concerts,  and  the  daily 
sights,  and  one  page  devoted  to  some  prodigious  yarn, 
generally  concerning  America,  of  which  country  its  read- 
ers must  get  the  most  extraordinary  and  frightful  impres- 
sion. The  "  Nachrichten  "  made  the  fortune  of  its  first 
owner,  who  built  himself  a  fine  house  out  of  it,  and 
retired  to  enjoy  his  wealth.  It  was  recently  sold  for  one 
hundred  thousand  guldens ;  and  I  can  see  that  it  is  piling 
up  another  fortune  for  its  present  owner.  The  Germans, 
who  herein  show  their  good  sense  and  the  high  state  of 
civilization  to  which  they  have  reached,  are  very  free 
advertisers,  going  to  the  newspapers  with  all  their  wants, 
and  finding  in  them  that  aid  which  all  interests  and  all 
sorts  of  people,  from  kaiser  to  kerl,  are  compelled,  in 
these  days,  to  seek  in  the  daily  journal.  Every  German 
town  of  any  size  has  three  or  four  of  these  little  journals 
of  flying  leaves,  which  are  excellent  papers  in  every 
respect,  except  that  they  look  like  badly-printed  hand- 
bills, and  have  very  little  news  and  no  editorials  worth 
speaking  of.  An  exception  to  these  in  Bavaria  is  the 
"  Allgemeine  Zeitung  "  of  Augsburg,  which  is  old  and 
immensely  respectable,  and  is  perhaps,  for  extent  of  cor- 
respondence and  splendidly-written  editorials  on  a  great 
variety  of  topics,  excelled  by  no  journal  in  Europe 
except  "  The  London  Times."  It  gives  out  two  editions 
daily,  the  evening  one  about  the  size  of  "  The  New- York 
Nation  ;  "  and  it  has  all  the  telegraphic  news.  It  is 
absurdly  old-grannyish,  and  is  malevolent  in  its  pre- 
tended conservatism  and  impartiality.  Yet  it  circulates 
over  forty  thousand  copies,  and  goes  all  over  Germany. 

But  were  we  not  saying  something  about  moving? 
The  truth  is,  that  the  best  German  families  did  not  re- 
spond to  our  appeal  with  that  alacrity  which  we  had  no 
right  to  expect,  and  did  not  exhibit  that  anxiety  for  our 


CIIAXGING  QUARTERS.  145 

Fociety  which  would  have  been  such  a  pleasant  evidence 
ol'  their  appreciation  of  the.  honor  done  to  the  roval  city 
of  Munich  by  the  selection  of  it  as  a  residence  during 
the  most  disagreeable  months  of  the.  year  by  the  advcr- 
tNinir  undersigned.  Even  the  young  king,  whose  ap- 
proaching marriage  to  the  Russian  princess,  one  would  • 
think,  might  soflen  his  heart,  did  nothing  to  win  onr 
regard,  or  to  show  that  lie  appreciated  our  residence 
*•  near"  his  court,  and,  so  fur  as  I  know,  never  read  with 
any  sort  of  attention  our  advertisement,  which  was  com- 
posed with  as  much  care  as  Goethe's  Faust,  and  prob- 
ably with  the  use  of  more  dictionaries.  And  this,  when 
he  has  an  extraordinary  large  Residenz,  to  say  nothing 
about  other  outlying  palaces  and  comfortable  places  to 
live  in,  in  which  I  know  there  are  scores  of  elegant ly- 
furnished  apartments,  which  stand  idle  almost  the  year 
round,  and  might  as  well  be  let  to  appreciative  strangers, 
who  would  accustom  the  rather  washy  and  fierce  ires- 
cos  on  the  walls  to  be  stared  at.  I  might  have  selected 
rooms,  say  on  the  court  which  looks  on  the  exquisite 
bronze  fountain,  Perseus  with  the  head  of  Medusa,  a 
copy  of  the  one  in  Florence  by  Benvenuto  Cellini,  where 
we  could  have  a  southern  exposure.  Or  we  might,  so  it 
would  seem,  have  had  rooms  by  the  winter  garden, 
where  tropical  plants  rejoice  in  perennial  summer,  and 
blossom  and  bear  fruit  while  a  northern  winter  raire 
without.  Yet  the  king  did  not  see  it  "  by  those  lamps  ;  " 
and  I  looked  in  vain  on  the  gates  of  the  Uesideuz  for 
the  notice  so  frequently  seen  on  other  houses,  of  apart- 
ments to  let.  And  yet  we  had  responses.  The  day 
after  the  announcement  appeared,  our  bell  rang  per- 
petually ;  and  we  had  as  many  letters  as  if  we  had 
advertised  for  wives  innumerable.  The  German  notes 
poured  in  upon  us  in  a  flood  ;  each  one  of  them  contain- 
ing an  offer  tempting  enough  to  beguile  an  an^el  out  of 
paradise,  at  least,  ac-curdin-j  to  our  translation  :  they 
nroiFered  us  chambers  that  were  positively  overheated 
by  the  fl.uuing  sun  (which,  I  can  take  my  oath,  only 
13 


146  CHANGING  QUARTERS. 

ventures  a  few  feet  above  the  horizon  at  this  season), 
which  were  friendly  in  appearance,  splendidly  furnished, 
and  near  to  every  desirable  thing,  and  in  which,  usually, 
some  American  family  had  long  resided,  and  experienced 
a  content  and  happiness  not  to  be  felt  out  of  Germany. 

I  spent  some  days  in  calling  upon  the  worthy  frauen 
who  made  these  alluring  offers.  The  visits  were  full  of 
profit  to  the  student  of  human  nature,  but  profitless 
otherwise.  I  was  ushered  into  low,  dark  chambers,  small 
and  dreary,  looking  towards  the  sunless  north,  which 
I  was  assured  were  delightful  and  even  elegant.  I  was 
taken  up  to  the  top  of  tall  houses,  through  a  smell  of 
cabbage  that  was  appalling,  to  find  empty  and  dreary 
rooms,  from  which  I  fled  in  fright.  We  were  visited  by 
so  many  people  who  had  chambers  to  rent,  that  we  were 
impressed  with  the  idea  that  all  Munich  was  to  let ;  and 
yet,  when  we  visited  the  places  offered,  we  found  they 
were  only  to  be  let  alone.  One  of  the  frauen  who  did 
us  the  honor  to  call,  also  wrote  a  note,  and  enclosed 
a  letter  that  she  had  just  received  from  an  American 
gentleman  (I  make  no  secret  of  it  that  he  came  from 
Hartford),  in  which  were  many  kindly  expressions  for 
her  welfare,  and  thanks  for  the  aid  he  had  received  in 
his  study  of  German ;  and  yet  I  think  her  chambers  are 
the  most  uninviting  in  the  entire  city.  There  were 
people  who  were  willing  to  teach  us  German,  without 
rooms  or  board  ;  or  to  lodge  us  without  giving  us  German 
or  food  ;  or  to  feed  us,  and  let  us  starve  intellectually,  and 
lodge  where  we  could. 

But  all  things  have  an  end,  and  so  did  our  hunt  for 
lodgings.  I  chanced  one  day  in  my  walk  to  find,  with  no 
help  from  the  advertisement,  very  nearly  what  we  desired, 
—  cheerful  rooms  in  a  pleasant  neighborhood,  where 
the  sun  comes  when  it  comes  out  at  all,  and  opposite  the 
Glass  Palace,  through  which  the  sun  streams  in  the  after- 
noon with  a  certain  splendor,  and  almost  next  door  to 
the  residence  and  laboratory  of  the  famous  chemist, 
Prof.  Liebig ;  so  that  we  can  have  our  feelings  analyzed 


CHAXGTNG  QUARTERS.  147 

whenever  it  is  desirable.  When  we  had  set  up  our 
house-hold  <jods,  and  a  fin*  was  kindled  in  the  tall  white; 
porcelain  iamily  monument,  (hat.  is  called  here  a  Move, 
—  and  which,  hv  the1  w.ty.  is  much  more  agreeable  than 
your  hideous,  black,  and  air-scorching  cast-iron  stoves,  — 
and  seen  that,  the  leather-beds  under  which  we  were 
expected  to  lie  were,  thick  enough  to  roast  the  half  of 
the  body,  and  short  enmi-h  to  let  the  other  halt'  fir 
we  determined  to  try  for  a,  season  the  regular  German 
cookery,  our  table  heretofore  having  been  served  wiih 
food  cooked  in  the  English  style  with  only  a.  slight  Ger- 
man flavor.  A  week  of  the  experiment  was  quite 
enough.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  viands  serve* I 
us  were  not  good,  only  that  we  could  not  make  up  our 
minds  to  eat  them.  The  Germans  eat  a  great  deal  of 
meat ;  and  we  were  obliged  to  take  meat  when  we  pre- 
ferred vegetables.  Now,  when  a  deep  dish  is  set  before 
you  wherein  are  chunks  of  pork  reposing  on  stewed 
potatoes,  and  another  wherein  a  fathomless  depth  of 
sauer-kraut  supports  coils  of  boiled  sausage,  which,  con- 
sidering that  you  are  a  mortal  and  responsible  being, 
and  have  a  stomach,  will  you  choose  ?  Here  in  Munich, 
nearly  all  the  bread  is  filled  with  anise  or  caraway  seed  : 
it  is  possible  to  get,  however,  the  best  wheat  bread  we 
have  eaten  in  Europe,  and  we  usually  have  it ;  but  one 
must  maintain  a  constant  vigilance  against  the  inroads 
of  the  fragrant  seeds.  Imagine,  then,  our  despair,  when 
one  day  the  potato,  the  one  vegetable  we  had  always 
eaten  with  perfect  confidence,  appeared  stewed  wit.h 
caraway-seeds.  This  was  too  much  for  American  human 
nature,  constituted  as  it  is.  Yet  the  dish  that  finally 
sent  us  back  to  our  ordinary  and  excellent  way  of  living 
is  one  for  which  I  have  no  name.  It  may  have  been 
compounded  at  different  times,  have  been  the  result  of 
many  tastes  or  distastes  :  but  there  was.  after  all.  a  unity 
in  it  that  marked  it  as  the  composition  of  one  master 
artist;  there  was  an  unspeakable  harmony  in  all  its 
flavors  and  apparently  ununituble  substances.  It  looked 


148  CHANGING  QUARTERS. 

like  a  terrapin  soup,  but  it  was  not.  Every  dive  of  the 
spoon  into  its  dark  liquid  brought  up  a  different  object, — • 
a  junk  of  unmistakable  pork,  meat  of  the  color  of  roast 
hare,  what  seemed  to  be  the  neck  of  a  goose,  some- 
thing in  strings  that  resembled  the  rags  of  a  silk  dress, 
shreds  of  cabbage,  and  what  I  am  quite  willing  to  take 
my  oath  was  a  bit  of  Astra ch an  fur.  If  Prof.  Liebig 
wishes  to  add  to  his  reputation,  he  could  do  so  by  analyz- 
ing this  dish,  and  publishing  the  result  to  the  world. 

And,  while  we  are  speaking  of  eating,  it  may  be  in- 
ferred that  the  Germans  are  good  eaters ;  and  although 
they  do  not  begin  early,  seldom  taking  much  more  than 
a  cup  of  coffee  before  noon,  they  make  it  up  by  very  sub- 
stantial dinners  and  suppers.  To  say  nothing  of  the 
extraordinary  dishes  of  meats  which  the  restaurants 
serve  at  night,  the  black-bread  and  odorous  cheese  and 
beer  which  the  men  take  on  board  in  the  course  of  an 
evening  would  soon  wear  out  a  cast-iron  stomach  in 
America ;  and  yet  I  ought  to  remember  the  deadly  pie 
and  the  corroding  whiskey  of  my  native  land.  The  res- 
taurant life  of  the  people  is,  of  course,  different  from 
their  home  life,  and  perhaps  an  evening  entertainment 
here  is  no  more  formidable  than  one  in  America,  but  it 
is  different.  Let  me  give  you  the  outlines  of  a  supper 
to  which  we  were  invited  the  other  night :  it  certainly 
cannot  hurt  you  to  read  about  it.  We  sat  down  at  eight. 
There  were  first  courses  of  three  sorts  of  cold  meat, 
accompanied  with  two  sorts  of  salad ;  the  one,  a  compo- 
site, with  a  potato  basis,  of  all  imaginable  things  tliat 
are  eaten.  Beer  and  bread  were  unlimited.  There  was 
then  roast  hare,  with  some  supporting  dish,  followed  by 
jellies  of  various  sorts,  and  ornamented  plates  of  some- 
thing that  seemed  unable  to  decide  whether  it  would  be 
jelly  or  cream  ;  and  then  came  assorted  cake  and  the 
white  wine  of  the  Rhine  and  the  red  of  Hungary.  We 
were  then  surprised  with  a  dish  of  fried  eels,  with  a 
sauce.  Then  came  cheese  ;  and,  to  crown  all.  enormous, 
triumphal-looking  loaves  of  cak( ,  works  of  art  in  appear- 


CHANGING  QUARTERS.  149 

unco,  and  delicious  to  the  taste.  We  sat  at  the  table  till 
twelve  o'clock;  but  you  must  not  imagine  that  every- 
body sat  still  all  the  time,  or  that,  appearances  to  the, 

contrary  notwithstanding,  the  principal  object  of  the 

entertainment  was  eating.  The  songs  that  were  suii'4 
in  Hungarian  as  well  as  German,  the  poems  that  were 
recited,  the  burlesques  of  actors  and  acting,  the  imita- 
tions that  were  inimitable,  the  take-ofF  of  table-tipping 
and  of  prominent  musieians,  the  wit  and  constant  ll<>w 
of  fun,  as  constant  as  the  good-humor  and  free  hospi- 
tality, the  unconstrained  ease  of  the  whole  evening, — 
these  things  made  the  real  supper  whieh  one  remembers 
when  the  grosser  meal  has  vanished,  as  all  substantial 
tilings  do  vanish. 


CHRISTMAS  TIME.  —  MUSIC. 

FOR  a  month  Munich  has  been  preparing  for  Christ- 
mas. The  shop-windows  have  had  a  holiday  look 
all  December.  I  see  one  every  day  in  which  are  dis- 
played all  the  varieties  of  fruits,  vegetables,  and  confec- 
tionery possible  to  be  desired  for  a  feast,  done  in  wax, — 
a  most  dismal  exhibition,  and  calculated  to  make  the 
adjoining  window,  which  has  a  little  Ibuntain  and  some 
green  plants  waving  amidst  enormous  pendent  sausages 
and  pigs'  heads  and  various  disagreeable  hashes  of 
pressed  meat,  positively  enticing.  And  yet  there  are 
some  vegetables  here  that  I  should  prefer  to  have  in  wax, 
—  for  instance,  sauer-kraut.  The  toy  windows  are 
worthy  of  study,  and  next  to  them  the  bakers'.  A  favor- 
ite toy  of  the  season  is  a  little  crib,  with  the  Holy  Child, 
in  sugar  or  wax,  lying  in  it  in  the  most  uncomfortable 
attitude.  Babies  here  are  strapped  upon  pillows,  or 
between  pillows,  and  so  tied  up  and  wound  up  that  they 
cannot  move  a  muscle,  except,  perhaps,  the  tongue  ;  and 
so,  exactly  like  little  mummies,  they  are  carried  about 
the  street  by  the  nurses,  —  poor  little  things,  packed  away 
so,  even  in  the  heat  of  summer,  their  little  faces  looking 
out  of  the  down  in  a  most  pitiful  fashion.  The  popular 
toy  is  a  representation,  in  sugar  or  wax,  of  this  period 
of  life.  Generally  the  toy  represents  twins,  so  swathed 
and  bound ;  and,  not  infrequently,  the  bold  conception 
of  the  artist  carries  the  point  of  the  humor  so  far  as  to 
introduce  triplets,  thus  sporting  with  the  most  dreadful 
possibilities  of  life. 
150 


CHRISTMAS  TIME.  — MUSIC.  151 

The  German  bakers  arc  very  in  Bilious  ;  and  if  they 
I'ould  lie  convinced  of  this  great  error,  that  because 
things  are  good  separately,  they  must  bo  good  in  com- 
bination, the  produce  of  their  ovens  would  he  much  inuiv. 
eatable.  As  it  is,  they  make  delicious  cuke,  and  of  end- 
iriety  ;  but  they  also  oiler  us  conglomerate,  forma- 
tions  that  may  have,  a  scientific  value,  but  are  utterly 
useless  to  a  stomach  not  trained  in  ( id-many.  Of  this 
sort,  for  the  most  part,  is  the  famous  Lebkuelien,  a  sort 
of  gingerbread  manufactured  in  Niirnberg,  and  sent  all 
over  Germany:  '•  a^t;  does  not  [seem  to]  impair,  nor 
custom  stale  its  infinite  variety."  It  is  very  dill'erent 
from  our  simple  cake  of  that  name,  although  it  is  usually 
baked  in  Hat  cards.  It  may  contain  nuts  or  fruit,  and  is 
spoiled  by  a  flavor  of  conflicting  spices.  I  should  think 
it  might  be  sold  by  the  cord,  it  is  piled  up  in  such  quan- 
tities ;  and,  as  it  grows  old  and  is  much  handled,  it  ac- 
quires that  brown,  not  to  say  dirty,  familiar  look,  which 
may,  for  aught  I  know,  be  one  of  its  chief  recommenda- 
tions. The  cake,  however,  which  prevails  at  this  season 
of  the  year  comes  irom  the  Tyrol ;  and,  as  the  holidays 
approach,  it  is  literally  piled  up  on  the  fruit-stands.  It 
is  called  Klatzenbrod,  and  is  not  a  bread  at  all,  but  an 
amalgamation  of  fruits  and  spices.  It  is  made  up  into 
small  round  or  oblong  forms  ;  and  the  top  is  ornamented, 
in  various  patterns,  with  split  almond  meats.  The  color 
is  a  faded  black,  as  if  it  had  been  left  ibr  some  time  in 
a  country  store  ;  and  the  weight  is  just  about  that  of  pig- 
iron.  I  had  formed  a  strong  desire,  mingled  with  dread, 
to  taste  it,  which  I  was  not  likely  to  gratify,  —  one  gets 
so  tired  of  such  experiments  after  a  time,  —  when  a  friend 
vnt  us  a  ball  of  it.  There  was  no  occasion  to  call  in 
Prof.  Liebig  to  analyze  the  substance  :  it  is  a  plain  case. 
The  black  mass  contains,  cut  up  and  pressed  together, 
figs,  citron,  oranges,  raisins,  dates,  various  kinds  of  nuts, 
cinnamon,  nutnn"_r.  cloves,  and  I  know  not  what  other 
spices,  together  with  the  inevitable  ani>e  and  caraway 
seeds.  It  would  make  an  exct  lleiit  cannon-ball,  and 


152  CHRISTMAS  TIME.  — MUSIC. 

would  be  specially  fatal  if  it  hit  an  enemy  in  the  stomach* 
These  seeds  invade  all  dishes.  The  cooks  seem  pos- 
sessed of  one  of  the  rules  of  whist,  —  in  case  of  doubt, 
play  a  trump  :  in  case  of  doubt,  they  always  put  in 
anise-seed.  It  is  sprinkled  profusely  in  the  blackest  rye 
bread,  it  gets  into  all  the  vegetables,  and  even  into  the 
holiday  cakes. 

The  extensive  Maximilian  Platz  has  suddenly  grown 
up  into  booths  and  shanties,  and  looks  very  much  like  a 
temporary  Western  village.  There  are  shops  for  the 
sale  of  Christmas  articles,  toys,  cakes,  and  gimcracks; 
and  there  are,  besides,  places  of  amusement,  if  one  of  the 
sorry  menageries  of  sick  beasts  with  their  hair  half  worn 
off  can  be  so  classed.  One  portion  of  the  platz  is  now 
a  lively  and  picturesque  forest  of  evergreens,  an  exten- 
sive thicket  of  large  and  small  trees,  many  of  them 
trimmed  with  colored  and  gilt  strips  of  paper.  I  meet 
in  every  street  persons  lugging  home  their  little  trees ; 
for  it  must  be  a  very  poor  household  that  cannot  have  its 
Christmas-tree,  on  which  are  hung  the  scanty  store  of 
candy,  nuts,  and  fruit,  and  the  simple  toys  that  the 
needy  people  will  pinch  themselves  otherwise  to  obtain. 

At  this  season,  usually,  the  churches  get  up  some 
representations  for  the  children,  —  the  stable  at  Bethle- 
hem, with  the  figures  of  the  Virgin  and  Child,  the  wise 
men,  and  the  oxen  standing  by.  At  least,  the  churches 
must  be  put  in  spic-and-span  order.  I  confess  that  I 
like  to  stray  into  these  edifices,  some  of  them  gaudy 
enough  when  they  are,  so  to  speak,  off  duty,  when  the 
choir  *«  deserted,  and  there  is  only  here  and  there  a 
solitary  worshipper  at  his  prayers ;  unless,  indeed,  as  it 
sometimes  happens,  when  I  fancy  myself  quite  alone,  I 
come  by  chance  upon  a  hundred  people,  in  some  remote 
corner  before  a  side  chapel,  where  mass  is  going  on,  but 
so  quietly  that  the  sense  of  solitude  in  the  church  is  not 
disturbed.  Sometimes,  when  the  place  is  left  entirely  to 
myself,  and  the  servants  who  are  putting  it  to  rights, 
and,  as  it  were,  shifting  the  scenes,  I  get  a  glimpse  of 


CHRISTMAS  TIME.— MUSIC.  153 

tin*  reality  of  all  the  pomp  and  parade  of  the  services. 
At  first  1  may  lie  a  little  shoeked  with  the  fimilhr  man- 
ner in  which  tlu' images  and  statues  and  the  gilded  para- 
phernalia  are  treated,  very  different  from  the  stately 
ceremony  of  the  morning,  when  the  priests  are  at  the 
altar,  the  ehoiris  in  the  organ-loft,  and  the  people  crowd 
nave  and  aisles.  Then  every  thing  is  sanctified  and 
inviolate.  Now,  a^  I  loiter  here,  the  old  woman  sweeps 
and  dusts  about  as  if  she  were  in  an  ordinary  crockery 
store:  the  sacred  things  are  handled  without  gloves. 
And,  lo  1  an  unclerical  servant,  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
climbs  up  to  the  altar,  and,  taking  down  the  silver-gilded 
cherubs,  holds  them,  head  down,  by  one  fat  toot,  while 
he  wipes  them  olf  with  a  damp  cloth.  To  think  of  suU 
mitt  ing  a  holy  cherub  to  the  indignity  of  a  damp  cloth  ! 

One  could  never  say  too  much  about  the  music  here. 
I  do  not  mean  that  of  the  regimental  bands,  or  the  or- 
chestras in  every  hall  and  beer-garden,  or  that  in  the 
churches  on  Sundays,  both  orchestral  and  vocal.  Nearly 
every  day,  at  hall-past  eleven,  there  is  a  parade  by  the 
Itesidenz,  and  another  on  the  Marian  Platz ;  and  at 
each  the  bands  play  for  half  an  hour.  In  the  Loggie  by 
the  palace  the  music-stands  can  always  be  set  out,  and 
they  are  used  in  the  platz  when  it  does  not  storm;  and 
the  bands  play  choice  overtures  and  selections  from  the 
operas  in  fine  style.  The  bands  are  always  preceded 
and  followed  by  a  great  crowd  as  they  march  through 
the  streets,  —  people  who  seem  to  live  only  for  this  half- 
hour  in  the  day,  and  whom  no  mud  or  snow  can  deter 
from  keeping  up  with  the  music.  It  is  a  little  gleam  of 
comfort  in  the  day  for  the  most  wearied  portion  of  the 
community  :  I  mean  those  who  have  nothing  to  do. 

But  the  music  of  which  I  speak  is  that  of  the  con- 
servatoire and  opera.  The  Hof  Theatre,  opera,  and  con- 
servatoire are  all  under  one  royal  direction.  The  latter 
has  been  recently  re-organized  with  a  new  direetor,  in 
accordance  with  the.  Wanner  notions  somewhat.  The 
young  king  is  cracked  about  Wagner,  and  appeals  tc 


154  CHRISTMAS  TIME.  —  MUSIC. 

care  little  for  other  music  :  he  brings  out  his  operas  at 
great  expense,  and  it  is  the  fashion  here  to  like  Wagner 
whether  he  is  understood  or  not.  The  opera  of  the 
Meister-Siinger  von  Niirnberg,  which  was  brought  out 
last  summer,  occupied  over  five  hours  in  the  representa- 
tion, which  is  unbearable  to  the  Germans,  who  go  to  the 
opera  at  six  o'clock  or  half-past,  and  expect  to  be  at 
home  before  ten.  His  latest  opera,  which  has  not  yet 
been  produced,  is  founded  on  the  Niebelungen  Lied,  and 
will  take  three  evenings  in  the  representation,  which  is 
almost  as  bad  as  a  Chinese  play.  The  present  director 
of  the  conservatoire  and  opera,  a  Prussian,  Herr  von 
Bulow,  is  a  friend  of  Wagner.  There  are  formed  here 
in  town  two  parties,  —  the  Wagner  and  the  conservative, 
the  new  and  the  old,  the  modern  and  classical ;  only  the 
Wagnerites  do  not  admit  that  their  admiration  of  Beet- 
hoven and  the  older  composers  is  less  than  that  of 
the  others,  and  so  for  this  reason  Bulow  has  given  us 
jnore  music  of  Beethoven  than  of  any  other  composer. 
One  thing  is  certain,  that  the  royal  orchestra  is  trained 
to  a  high  state  of  perfection  :  its  rendition  of  the  grand 
operas  and  its  weekly  concerts  in  the  Odeon  cannot 
easily  be  surpassed.  The  singers  are  not  equal  to  the 
orchestra,  for  Berlin  and  Vienna  offer  greater  induce- 
ments ;  but  there  are  people  here  who  regard  this  orches- 
tra as  superlative.  They  say  that  the  best  orchestras  in 
the  world  are  in  Germany  ;  that  the  best  in  Germany  is 
in  Munich ;  and,  therefore,  you  can  see  the  inevitable 
deduction.  We  have  another  parallel  syllogism.  The 
greatest  pianist  in  the  world  is  Liszt ;  but  then  Herr 
Bulow  is  actually  a  better  performer  than  Liszt ;  there- 
fore you  see  again  to  what  you  must  come.  At  any  rate, 
we  are  quite  satisfied  in  this  provincial  capital ;  and,  if 
there  is  anywhere  better  music,  we  don't  know  it.  Bu- 
low's  orchestra  is  not  very  large,  —  there  are  less  than 
eighty  pieces,  —  but  it  is  so  handled  and  drilled,  that, 
when  we  hear  it  give  one  of  the  symphonies  of  Beetho- 
I  en  or  Mendelssohn,  there  is  little  left  to  be  desired. 


CHRISTMAS  TIME.  —MUSIC.  155 

Bulow  is  a  wonderful  conductor,  —  a  little  man,  all  norvo 
and  fin1,  and  lui  seems  to  inspire  every  instrument.  It 
is  worth  Mum-thing  to  sec,  him  lead  an  orchestra:  hig 
baton  is  magical  ;  head,  arms,  and  the  whole;  body  are 
in  motion;  lie  knows  every  note  of  the  compositions; 
and  the  precision  with  which  he  evokes  a  solitary  note 
out  of  a  distant  instrument  with  a  jerk  of  his  rod,  or 
brings  a  wail  from  the  concurring  violins,  like  the  moan- 
ing ot'a  pine  forest  in  winter,  with  a  sweep  of  his  arm,  is 
most  masterly.  About  the  platform  of  the  Odcon  are 
the  marble  busts  of  the  great  composers  ;  and,  while  the 
orchestra  is  giving  some  of  Beethoven's  masterpieces,  I 
like  to  fix  my  eyes  on  his  serious  and  genius-full  face, 
which  seems  cognizant  of  all  that  is  passing,  and  believe 
that  he  has  a  posthumous  satisfaction  in  the  interpreta- 
tion of  his  great  thoughts. 

The  managers  of  the  conservatoire  also  give  vocal  con- 
certs, and  there  are,  besides,  quartet  soirees;  BO  that 
there  are  few  evenings  without  some  attraction.  The 
opera  alternates  with  the  theatre  two  or  three  times  a 
week.  The  singers  are,  perhaps,  not  known  in  Paris 
and  London,  but  some  of  them  are  not  unworthy  to  be. 
There  is  the  barytone,  Herr  Kindermann,  who  now,  at 
the  age  of  sixty-five,  has  a  superb  voice  and  manner,  and 
has  had  few  superiors  in  his  time  on  the  German  stage. 
There  is  Frau  Dietz,  at  forty-five,  the  best  of  actresses, 
and  with  a  still  fresh  and  lovely  voice.  There  is  Herr 
Nachbar,  a  tenor,  who  has  a  future ;  Fraulein  Stehle,  a 
soprano,  young  and  with  an  uncommon  voice,  who  enjoys 
a  large  salary,  and  was  the  favorite  until  another  soprano, 
the  Malinger,  came  and  turned  the  heads  of  king  and 
opera  habitues.  The  resources  of  the  Academy  are,  how- 
ever, tolerably  large ;  and  the  practice  of  pensioning  for 
life  the  singers  enables  them  to  keep  always  a  tolerable 
company.  This  habit  of  pensioning  officials,  as  well  as 
musicians  and  poets,  is  very  agreeable  to  the  Germans. 
A  gentleman  the  other  day,  who  expressed  great  surprise 
at  the  smailness  of  the  salary  of  our  President,  said,  that, 


156  CHRISTMAS  TIME.— MUSIC. 

of  course,  Andrew  Johnson  would  receive  a  pension  when 
he  retired  from  office.  I  could  not  explain  to  him  ho"W 
comical  the  idea  was  to  me;  but  when  I  think  of  the 
American  people  pensioning  Andrew  Johnson,  —  well, 
like  the  fictitious  Yankee  in  "  Mugby  Junction,"  "  I  laff. 
I  du." 

There  is  some  fashion,  in  a  fudgy,  quaint  way,  here  in 
Munich  ;  but  it  is  not  exhibited  in  dress  for  the  opera. 
People  go  —  and  it  is  presumed  the  music  is  the  attrac- 
tion—  in  ordinary  apparel.  They  save  all  their  dress 
parade  for  the  concerts;  and  the  hall  of  the  Odeon  is  as 
brilliant  as  provincial  taste  can  make  it  in  toilet.  The 
ladies  also  go  to  operas  and  concerts  unattended  by  gen- 
tlemen, and  are  brought,  and  fetched  away,  by  their  ser- 
vants. There  is  a  freedom  and  simplicity  about  this 
which  I  quite  like ;  and.  besides,  it  leaves  their  husbands 
and  brothers  at  liberty  to  spend  a  congenial  evening  in 
the  cafes,  beer-gardens,  and  clubs.  But  there  is  always 
a  heavy  fringe  of  young  officers  and  gallants  both  at 
opera  and  concert,  standing  in  the  outside  passages.  It 
is  cheaper  to  stand,  and  one  can  hear  quite  as  well,  and 
see  more. 


LOOKING    FOR    WARM 
WEATHER. 


FROM   MUNICH   TO   NAPLES. 

AT  all  events,  saith  the  best  authority,  "  pray  that 
your  flight  be  not  in  winter ;  "  and  it  might  have 
added,  don't  go  south  if  you  desire  warm  weather.  In 
January,  1869,  I  had  a  little  experience  of  hunting  after 
Denial  skit's ;  and  I  will  give  you  the  benefit  of  it  in  some 
free  running  notes  on  my  journey  from  Munich  to 
Naples. 

It  was  the  middle  of  January,  at  eleven  o'clock  at 
night,  that  we  left  Munich,  on  a  mixed  railway  train, 
choosing  that  time,  and  the  slowest  of  slow  trains,  that 
we  might  make  the  famous  Brenner  Pass  by  daylight.  It 
was  no  easy  matter,  at  last,  to  pull  up  from  the  dear  old 
city  in  which  we  had  become  so  firmly  planted,  and  to 
leave  the  German  friends  who  made  the  place  like  home 
to  us.  One  gets  to  love  Germany  and  the  Germans  as 
he  does  no  other  country  and  people  in  Europe.  There 
has  been  something  so  simple,  honest,  genuine,  in  our 
Munich  life,  that  we  look  back  to  it  with  longing  eyes 
from  this  land  of  fancy,  of  hand-organ  music  and  squalid 
splendor.  I  presume  the  streets  are  yet  half  the  day  hid 
in  a  mountain  fog  ;  but  I  know  the  superb  military  bands 
are  still  playing  at  noon  in  the  old  Marian  Platz  and  in 
the  Loggie  by  the  Residenz ;  that  at  halt-past  six  in  the 
evening  our  friends  are  quietly  stepping  in  to  hear  the 
opera  at  the  Hof  Theatre,  where  everybody  goes  to  hear 
the  music,  and  nobody  for  display,  and  that  they  will  be 
at  home  before  half-past  nine,  and  have  despatched  the 
servant  for  the  mugs  of  foaming  beer ;  I  know  that  they 

159 


160  FROM  MUNICH  TO  NAPLES. 

still  hear  every  week  the  choice  conservatoire  orchestra' 
concerts  in  the  Odeon ;  and,  alas  that  experience  should 
force  me  to  think  of  it !  T  have  no  doubt  that  they  sip, 
every  morning,  coffee  which  is  as  much  superior  to  that 
of  Paris  as  that  of  Paris  is  to  that  of  London ;  and  that 
they  eat  the  delicious  rolls,  in  comparison  with  which 
those  of  Paris  are  tasteless.  I  wonder,  in  this  land  of 
wine,  —  and  yet  it  must  be  so,  — if  the  beer-gardens  are 
still  filled  nightly ;  and  if  it  could  be  that  I  should  sit  at 
a  little  table  there,  a  comely  lass  would,  before  I  could  ask 
for  what  everybody  is  presumed  to  want,  place  before  me 
a  tall  glass  full  of  amber  liquid,  crowned  with  creamy 
foam.  Are  the  handsome  officers  still  sipping  their  coffee 
in  the  Cafe  Maximilian  ;  and,  on  sunny  days,  is  the  crowd 
of  fashion  still  streaming  down  to  the  Isar,  and  the  high, 
sightly  walks  and  gardens  beyond  ? 

As  I  said,  it  was  eleven  o'clock  of  a  clear  and  not  very 
severe  night ;  for  Munich  had  had  no  snow  on  the  ground 
since  November.  A  deputation  of  our  friends  were  at 
the  station  to  see  us  off,  and  the  farewells  between  the 
gentlemen  were  in  the  hearty  fashion  of  the  country.  I 
know  there  is  a  prejudice  with  us  against  kissing  between 
men ;  but  it  is  only  a  question  of  taste :  and  the  experi- 
ence of  anybody  will  tell  him  that  the  theory  that  thi? 
sort  of  salutation  must  necessarily  be  desirable  between 
opposite  sexes  is  a  delusion.  But  I  suppose  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  kissing  between  men  was  invented  in  Ger- 
many before  they  wore  full  beards.  Well,  our  good-bys 
said,  we  climbed  into  our  bare  cars.  There  is  no  way  of 
heating  the  German  cars,  except  by  tubes  filled  with  hot 
water,  which  are  placed  under  the  feet,  and  are  called 
foot-warmers.  As  we  slowly  moved  out  over  the  plain, 
we  found  it  was  cold ;  in  an  hour  the  foot-warmers,  not 
hot  to  start  with,  were  stone  cold.  You  are  going  to 
sunny  Italy,  our  friends  had  said :  as  soon  as  you  pass 
the  Brenner  you  will  have  sunshine  and  delightful 
weather.  This  thought  consoled  us,  but  did  not  warm 
our  feet.  The  Germans,  when  they  travel  by  rail,  wrap 
themselves  in  furs,  and  carry  foot-sacks. 


FROM  MUNICH  TO  NAPLES.  161 

"NVc  creaked  alon<_r,  with  many  Stopping!.  At  two 
o'clock  we  wriv.  at  Koscnhcim.  Rxcnlicim  is  a  windy 
place,  with  clear  starlight,  with  ;i  multitude  of  cars  on  a 

multiplicity  <>f  tracks,  and  a  large,  lighted  refreshment- 

room,  which  has  a  glowing,  jolly  stove.  We  stay  llicrc 
an  hour,  toasting  by  the  fire  and  drinking  excellent  coll'cc. 
Groups  of  (Jermans  are  seated  at  tables  playing  cards, 
smoking,  and  taking  coffee.  Other  trains  arrive;  and 
huge  men  stalk  in,  from  Vienna  or  Russia,  you  would 
say,  enveloped  in  enormous  fur  overcoats,  reaching  to  the 
heels,  and  with  big  fur  boots  coining  above  the  knees,  in 
which  they  move  like  elephants.  Another  start,  and  a 
cold  ride  with  cooling  foot-warmers,  droning  on  to  Kurf- 
stcin.  It  is  five  o'clock  when  we  reach  Kurfstein,  which 
is  also  a  restaurant,  with  a  hot  stove,  and  more  Germans 
going  on  as  if  it  were  daytime;  but  by  this  time  in  the 
morning  the  coffee  had  got  to  be  wretched.  After  an 
hour's  waiting,  we  dream  on  again,  and,  before  we  know 
it,  come  out  of  our  cold  doze  into  the  cold  dawn. 
Through  the  thick  frost  on  the  windows  we  see  the  faint 
outlines  of  mountains.  Scraping  away  the  incrustation, 
we  find  that  we  are  in  the  Tyrol,  —  high  hills  on  all 
sides,  no  snow  in  the  valley,  a  bright  morning,  and  the 
snow  peaks  are  soon  rosy  in  the  sunrise.  It  is  just  as  wo 
expected,  —  little  villages  under  the  hills,  and  slender 
church-spires  with  brick-red  tops.  At  nine  o'clock  we 
are  in  Innsbruck,  at  the  foot  of  the  Brenner.  No  snow 
yet.  It  must  be  charming  here  in  the  summer. 

During  the  night  we  have  got  out  of  Bavaria.  The 
waiter  at  the  restaurant  wants  us  to  pay  him  ninety 
kreuzers  for  our  coffee,  which  is  only  six  kreuzers  a  cup 
in  Munich.  Remembering  that  it  takes  one  hundred 
kreuzers  to  make  a  gulden  in  Austria,  I  launch  out  a 
Bavarian  gulden,  and  expect  ten  kreuzers  in  change.  I 
have  heard  that  sixty  Bavarian  kreuzers  are  equal  to 
one  hundred  Austrian ;  but  this  waiter  explains  to  me 
that  my  gulden  is  only  good  for  ninety  kreuzers.  I,  in 
my  turn,  explain  to  the  waiter  that  it  is  better  than  the 
13* 


162  FROM  MUNICH  TO  NAPLES. 

coffee ;  but  we  come  to  no  understanding,  and  I  give  up, 
before  I  begin,  trying  to  understand  the  Austrian  cur- 
rency. During  the  day  I  get  my  pockets  full  of  coppers, 
which  are  very  convenient  to  take  in  change,  but  appear 
to  have  a  very  slight  purchasing  power  in  Austria  even, 
and  none  at  all  elsewhere,  and  the  only  use  for  which  I 
have  found  is  to  give  to  Italian  beggars.  One  of  these 
pieces  satisfies  a  beggar  when  it  drops  into  his  hat ;  and 
then  it  detains  him  long  enough  in  the  examination  of  it, 
so  that  your  carriage  has  time  to  get  so  far  away  that  his 
renewed  pursuit  is  usually  unavailing. 

The  Brenner  Pass  repaid  us  for  the  pains  we  had 
taken  to  see  it,  especially  as  the  sun  shone  and  took  the 
frost  from  our  windows,  and  we  encountered  no  snow  on 
the  track ;  and,  indeed,  the  fall  was  not  deep,  except  on 
the  high  peaks  about  us.  Even  if  the  engineering  of  the 
road  were  not  so  interesting,  it  was  something  to  be  again 
amidst  mountains  that  can  boast  a  height  of  ten  thousand 
feet.  After  we  passed  the  summit,  and  began  the  zigzag 
descent,  we  were  on  a  sharp  lookout  for  sunny  Italy.  I 
expected  to  lay  aside  my  heavy  overcoat,  and  sun  myself 
at  the  first  station  among  the  vineyards.  Instead  of  that, 
we  bade  good-by  to  bright  sky,  and  plunged  into  a  snow- 
storm, and,  so  greeted,  drove  down  into  the  narrow 
gorges,  whose  steep  slopes  we  could  see  were  terraced  to 
the  top,  and  planted  with  \ines.  We  could  distinguish 
enough  to  know  that,  with  the  old  Roman  ruins,  the 
churches  and  convent  towers  perched  on  the  crags,  and 
all,  the  scenery  in  summer  must  be  finer  than  that  of  the 
Rhine,  especially  as  the  vineyards  here  are  picturesque, 
—  the  vines  being  trained  so  as  to  hide  and  clothe  the 
ground  with  verdure. 

Ifc  was  four  o'clock  when  we  reached  Trent,  and  colder 
than  on  top  of  the  Brenner.  As  the  Council,  owing  to 
the  dead  state  of  its  members  for  now  three  centuries, 
was  not  in  session,  we  made  no  long  tarry.  We  went 
into  the  magnificent  large  refreshment-room  to  get  warm ; 
but  it  was  as  cold  as  a  Sew-Engknd  barn.  I  asked  the 


FROM  MUNICH  TO  NAPLES.  163 

proprietor  if  we  couM  not  get  at  a  fire;  but  he.  insist* d 
that  tlu'  room  was  warm.  —  that  it  was  heated  with  a  fur- 
na-v,  ard  tliat  he  burned  good  stove-coal,  and  pointed 
to  a  renter  hiidi  up  in  the  wall.  Seeing  that  I  looked 
incredulous,  he  insisted  that  I  should  test  it.  Accord- 
ingly, I  clinil)e<l  upon  a  table,  and  reached  up  my  hand. 
A  taint  warmth  came  out;  and  I  gave  it  up,  and  congrat- 
ulated the  landlord  on  his  furnace.  But  the  register 
had  no  effect  on  the  great  hall.  You  might  as  well  try 
to  heat  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  with  a  lucifer-mateh.  At 
dark,  Allah  be  praised !  we  reached  Ala,  where  we  went 
through  the  humbug  of  an  Italian  custom-bouse,  and  had 
our  first  glimpse  of  Italy  in  the  picturesque-looking  idlers 
in  red-tasselied  caps,  and  the  jabber  of  a  strange  tongue. 
The  snow  turned  into  a  cold  rain  :  the  foot-warmers,  we 
having  reached  the  sunny  lands,  could  no  longer  be 
afforded;  and  we  shivered  along,  till  nine  o'clock,  dark 
and  rainy,  brought  us  to  Verona.  We  emerged  from  the 
station  to  find  a  crowd  of  omnibuses,  carriages,  drivers, 
runners,  and  people  anxious  to  help  us,  all  vociferating  in 
the  highest  key.  Amidst  the  usual  Italian  clamor  about 
nothing,  we  gained  our  hotel  omnibus,  and  sat  there  for 
ten  minutes  watching  the  dispute  over  our  luggage,  and 
serenely  listening  to  the  angry  vituperations  of  policemen 
and  drivers.  It  sounded  like  a  revolution,  but  it  was  only 
the  ordinary  Italian  way  of  doing  things;  and  we  were  at 
last  rattling  away  over  the  broad  pavements. 

Of  course,  we  stopped  at  a  palace  turned  hotel,  drove 
into  a  court  with  double  flights  of  high  stone  and  marble 
stairways,  and  were  hurried  up  to  the  marble-mosaic 
landing  by  an  active  boy,  and,  almost  before  we  could  ask 
for  rooms,  were  shown  into  a  suite  of  magnificent  apart- 
ments. I  had  a  glimpse  of  a  garden  in  the  rear,  — 
flowers  and  plants,  and  a  balcony  up  which  I  suppose 
Romeo  climbed  to  hold  that  immortal  love-prattle  with 
the  lovesick  Juliet.  Boy  began  to  light  the  candles. 
Asked  in  English  the  price  of  such  fine  rooms.  Reply  in 
Italian.  Ask^d  in  German.  Reply  in  Julian.  Asked  iu 


164  FROM  MUNICH  TO  NAPLES. 

French,  with  the  same  result.  Other  servants  appeared, 
each  with  a  piece  of  baggage.  Other  candles  were 
lighted.  Everybody  talked  in  chorus.  The  landlady,  a 
woman  of  elegant  manners  and  great  command  of  her 
native  tongue,  appeared  with  a  candle,  and  joined  in  the 
melodious  confusion.  What  is  the  price  of  these  rooms  ? 
More  jabber,  more  servants  bearing  lights.  We  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  come  into  an  illumination  and  a  private 
lunatic  asylum.  The  landlady  and  her  troop  grew  more 
and  more  voluble  and  excited.  Ah,  then,  if  these  rooms 
do  not  suit  the  signor  and  signoras,  there  are  others; 
and  we  were  whisked  off  to  apartments  yet  grander,  — 
great  suites  with  high,  canopied  beds,  mirrors,  and  furni- 
ture that  was  luxurious  a  hundred  years  ago.  The 
price  V  Again  a  torrent  of  Italian ;  servants  pouring  in, 
lights  flashing,  our  baggage  arriving,  until,  in  the  tumult, 
hopeless  of  any  response  to  our  inquiry  for  a  servant  who 
could  speak  any  thing  but  Italian,  and  when  we  had 
decided,  in  despair,  to  hire  the  entire  establishment,  a 
waiter  appeared  who  was  accomplished  in  all  languages, 
the  row  subsided,  and  we  were  left  alone  in  our  glory, 
and  soon  in  welcome  sleep  forgot  our  desperate  search 
for  a  warm  climate. 

The  next  day  it  was  rainy  and  not  warm ;  but  the  sun 
came  out  occasionally,  and  we  drove  about  to  see  some 
of  the  sights.  The  first  Italian  town  which  the  stranger 
sees  he  is  sure  to  remember,  the  out-door  life  of  the  peo- 
ple is  so  different  from  that  at  the  North.  It  is  the 
fiction  in  Italy  that  it  is  always  summer ;  and  the  people 
sit  in  the  open  market-place,  shiver  in  the  open  door- 
ways, crowd  into  corners  where  the  sun  comes,  and  try 
to  keep  up  the  beautiful  pretence.  The  picturesque 
groups  of  idlers  and  traffickers  were  more  interesting  to 
us  than  the  palaces  with  sculptured  fronts  and  old  Ro- 
man busts,  or  tombs  of  the  Scaligers,  and  old  gates.  Per- 
haps I  ought  to  except  the  wonderful  and  perfect  Roman 
amphitheatre,  over  every  toot  of  which  a  handsome  boy 
in  rags  followed  us,  looking  over  every  wall  that  ww 


FROM  MUNICH  TO  NAPLES.  165 

looked  over,  peering  into  every  hole  that  we  peered 
into,  thus  showing  his  fellowship  wiih  us,  and  at  evcrv 
])a:ise  planting  himself  before  us  and  throwing  a  sonicr 
set,  and  then  extending  his  greasy  cap  tor  coppers  as 
it'  ho  knew  that  the  modern  mind  ought  not  to  dwell 
to,»  exclusively  on  hoary  antiquity  without  some  relief. 

Anxious,  as  I  have  said,  to  find  the  sunny  South,  we 
left  Verona  that  afternoon  for  Florence.  by  way  of  Pa.  I  in, 
and  Bologna.  The  ride  to  Padua  was  through  a  plain 
at  this  season  dreary  enough,  were  it  not,  here  and  there, 
tor  the  abrupt  little  hills  and  the  snowy  Alps,  which 
were  always  in  sight,  and  towards  sundown  and  between 
showers  transcendently  lovely  in  a  purple  and  rosy  light. 
But  nothing  now  could  be  more  desolate  than  the  rows 
of  unending  mulberry-trees,  pruned  down  to  the  stumps, 
through  which  we  rode  all  the  afternoon.  I  suppose 
they  look  better  when  the  branches  grow  out  with  the 
tender  leaves  for  the  silk-worms,  and  when  they  are 
clothed  with  grapevines.  Padua  was  only  to  us  a  name. 
There  we  turned  south,  lost  mountains  and  the  near 
hills,  and  had  nothing  but  the  mulberry  flats  and  ditches 
of  water,  and  chilly  rain  and  mist.  It  grew  unpleasant 
as  we  went  south.  At  dark  we  were  riding  slowly,  very 
slowly,  for  miles  through  a  country  overflowed  with 
water,  out  of  which  trees  and  houses  loomed  up  in  a 
ghastly  show.  At  all  the  stations  soldiers  were  getting 
on  board,  shouting  and  singing  discordantly  choruses 
from  the  operas;  for  there  was  a  rising  at  Padua,  and 
one  feared  at  Bologna  the  populace  getting  up  insur- 
rections against  the  enforcement  of  the  grist-tax,  —  a  tax 
which  has  made  the  Government  very  unpopular,  as  it 
falls  principally  upon  the  poor. 

Creeping  alonir  at  such  a  slow  rate,  we  reached  Bologna 
too  late  for  the  Florence  train.  It  was  eight  o'clock,  and 
still  raining.  The  next  train  went  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  was  the  best  one  tor  us  to  take.  We  had 
supper  in  an  inn  near  by,  and  a  fair  a! tempt  at  a  lire,  in 
our  parlor.  I  sat  before  it,  and  kept  it  as  lively  as  pus- 


166  FROM  MUNICH  TO  NAPLES. 

sible.  as  the  hours  wore  away,  and  tried  to  make  believo 
that  I  was  ruminating  on  the  ancient  greatness  of  Bo- 
logna and  its  famous  university,  some  of  whose  chairs 
had  been  occupied  by  women,  and  upon  the  fact  that  it 
was  on  a  little  island  in  the  Reno,  just  below  here,  that 
Octavius  and  Lepidus  and  Mark  Antony  formed  the 
second  Triumvirate,  which  put  an  end  to  what  little 
Hberty  Rome  had  left ;  but  in  reality  I  was  thinking  of 
the  draught  on  my  back,  and  the  comforts  of  a  sunny 
clime.  But  the  time  came  at  length  for  starting ;  and  in 
luxurious  cars  we  finished  the  night  very  comfortably, 
and  rode  into  Florence  at  eight  in  the  morning  to  find, 
as  we  had  hoped,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Apennines,  a 
sunny  sky  and  balmy  air. 

As  this  is  strictly  a  chapter  of  travel  and  weather,  I 
may  not  stop  to  say  how  impressive  and  beautiful  Flor- 
ence seemed  to  us ;  how  bewildering  in  art  treasures, 
which  one  sees  at  a  glance  in  the  streets  ;  or  scarcely  to 
hint  how  lovely  were  the  Boboli  Gardens  behind  the 
Pitti  Palace,  the  roses,  geraniums,  &c.,  in  bloom,  the 
birds  singing,  and  all  in  a  soft,  dreamy  air.  The  next 
day  was  not  so  genial ;  and  we  sped  on,  following  our 
original  intention  of  seeking  the  summer  in  winter.  In 
order  to  avoid  trouble  with  baggage  and  passports  in 
Rome,  we  determined  to  book  through  for  Naples, 
making  the  trip  in  about  twenty  hours.  We  started  at 
nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  I  do  not  recall  a  more 
thoroughly  uncomfortable  journey.  It  grew  colder  as 
the  night  wore  on,  and  we  went  farther  south.  Late  in 
the  morning  we  were  landed  at  the  station  outside  of 
Rome.  There  was  a  general  appearance  of  ruin  and 
desolation.  The  wind  blew  fiercely  from  the  hills,  and 
the  snow-flakes  from  the  flying  clouds  added  to  the  gene- 
ral chilliness.  There  was  no  chance  to  get  even  a  cup 
of  coffee,  and  we  waited  an  hour  in  the  cold  car.  If  I 
had  not  been  so  half  frozen,  the  consciousness  that  I  was 
actually  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Eternal  City,  that  I  saw 
the  Cauipagna  and  the  aqueducts,  that  yonder  were  the 


FROM  MUNICH  TO  NAPLES.  167 

All);m  Hills,  and  that  every  foot  of  soil  on  which  I  looked 
was  saturated  wiih  history,  would  have  excited  nu-. 
Tlu-  sun  c.iim1  out  lion1  and  there  as  we  went  south,  and 
\ve  cauji*  some  exiMiisUe  lights  on  the  near  and  snowy 
hills;  at'd  ihere  was  something  almost  homelike  in  tho 
iiiiles  and  miles  of  olive  orchards,  that  recalled  the  apple- 
.  but  for  their  shining  silvered  leaves.  And  yet 
nothing  could  be  more  desolate  than  the  brown  marshy 
ground,  the  brown  hillocks,  with  now  and  then  a  shabby 
stone  hut  or  a  bit  of  ruin,  and  the  flocks  of  sheep  shiv- 
ering near  their  corrals,  and  their  shepherd,  clad  in 
sheepskin,  as  his  ancestor  was  in  the  time  of  Romulus, 
leaning  on  his  staff,  with  his  back  to  the  wind.  No\v 
and  then  a  white  town  pen/lied  on  a  hillside,  its  houses 
piled  above  each  other,  relieved  the  eyu ;  and  I  could 
imagine  that  it  might  be  aH  the  poets  have  sung  of  it, 
in  the  spring,  though  the  Latin  pcets,  I  aiD  convinced, 
have  wonderfully  imposed  on  us. 

To  make  my  long  story  short,  It  happened  to  be  coMer 
next  morning  at  Naples  than  it  was  in  Germany.  The 
sun  shone ;  but  the  north-east  wind,  which  the  lativv  s 
poetically  call  the  Tramontane,  was  blowing,  and  iho 
white  smoke  of  Vesuvius  rolled  towards  the  sea.  It 
would  only  last  three  days,  it  was  very  unusual,  and  all 
that.  The  next  day  it  was  colder,  and  the  next  colder 
yet.  Snow  fell,  and  blew  about  unmelted  :  I  saw  it  fn 
the  streets  of  Pompeii.  The  fountains  were  frozeL 
icicles  hung  from  the  locks  of  the  marble  statues  in  the 
Chiaia.  And  yet  the  oranges  glowed  like  gold  amoL  * 
their  green  leaves ;  the  roses,  the  heliotrope,  the  gera 
niums,  bloomed  in  all  the  gardens.  It  is  thfr  most  cci- 
tradictory  climate.  We  lunched  one  day,  sitting  in  01  r 
.open  carriage  in  a  lemon  grove,  and  near  at  hand  fhv 
Lucrine  Lake  was  half  frozen  over.  We  feasted  our  ey  *s 
on  the  brilliant  light  and  color  on  the  sea,  and  tin 
lovely  outlined  mountains  round  the  shore,  and  waitec 
for  a  change  of  wind.  The  Neapolitans  declare  thit 
they  have  not  had  such  weather  in  twenty  years.  It  » i 
scarcely  one's  ideal  of  balmy  Italy. 


168  FROM  MUNICH  TO  NAPLES. 

Before  the  weather  changed,  I  began  to  feel  in  this 
great  Naples,  with  its  roaring  population  of  over  half  a 
million,  very  much  like  the  sailor  I  saw  at  the  American 
consul's,  who  applied  for  help  to  be  sent  home,  claiming 
to  be  an  American.  He  was  an  oratorical  bummer,  and 
told  his  story  with  all  the  dignity  and  elevated  language 
of  an  old  Roman.  He  had  been  cast  away  in  London. 
How  cast  away  ?  Oh  1  it  was  all  along  of  a  boarding- 
house.  And  then  he  found  himself  shipped  on  an 
English  vessel,  and  he  had  lost  his  discharge-papers ; 
and  "  Listen,  your  honor,"  said  he,  calmly  extending  his 
right  hand,  "  here  I  am  cast  away  on  this  desolate  island, 
•with  Qothing  before  me  but  wind  and  weather." 


RAVENNA. 


A  DEAD   CITY. 

E  A VENN A  is  so  remote  from  the  route  of  general 
travel  in  Italy,  that  I  am  certain  you  can  have  no 
late  news  from  there,  nor  can  I  bring  you  any  thing  much 
later  than  the  sixth  century.  Yet,  if  you  were  to  see 
Ravenna,  you  would  say  that  th°.t  is  Lite  enough.  1  am 
surprised  that  a  city  which  contains  the  most  interesting 
early  Christian  churches  and  mosaics,  is  the  richest  in 
undisturbed  specimens  of  early  Christian  art,  and  con- 
tains the  only  monuments  of  Roman  emperors  still  in 
their  original  positions,  should  be  so  seldom  visited. 
Ravenna  has  been  dead  for  some  centuries ;  and,  be- 
cause nobody  has  cared  to  bury  it,  its  ancient  monuments 
are  yet  above  ground.  Grass  grows  in  its  wide  streets, 
and  its  houses  stand  in  a  sleepy,  vacant  contemplation 
of  each  other :  the  wind  must  like  to  mourn  about  its 
silent  squares.  The  waves  of  the  Adriatic  once  brought 
the  commerce  of  the  East  to  its  wharves ;  but  the 
deposits  of  the  Po  and  the  tides  have,  in  process  of  time, 
made  it  an  inland  town,  and  the  sea  is  four  miles  away. 
In  the  time  of  Augustus,  Ravenna  was  a  favorite 
Roman  port  and  harbor  for  fleets  of  war  and  merchan- 
dise. There  Theodoric,  the  great  king  of  the  Goths, 
set  up  his  palace,  and  there  is  his  enormous  mausoleum. 
As  early  as  A.D.  44  it  became  an  episcopal  see,  with 
St.  Apollinaris,  a  disciple  of  St.  Peter,  for  its  bishop. 
There  some  of  the  later  Roman  emperors  fixed  their 
residences,  and  there  they  repose.  In  and  about  it 
revolved  the  adventurous  life  of  Gal  la  Placidia,  a  wo- 

171 


172  A  DEAD  CITY. 

man  of  considerable  talent  and  no  principle,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Theodosius  (the  great  Theodosius,  who  subdued 
the  Ariari  heresy,  the  first  emperor  baptized  in  the 
true  faith  of  the  Trinity,  the  last  who  had  a  spark  of 
genius),  the  sister  of  one  emperor,  and  the  mother 
of  another,  —  twice  a  slave,  once  a  queen,  and  once  an 
empress ;  and  she,  too,  rests  there  in  the  great  mau- 
soleum builded  for  her.  There,  also,  lies  Dante,  in  hig 
tomb  "  by  the  upbraiding  shore ;  "  rejected  once  of  un- 
grateful Florence,  and  forever  after  passionately  longed 
for.  There,  in  one  of  the  earliest  Christian  churches  in 
existence,  are  the  fine  mosaics  of  the  Emperor  Justinian, 
and  Theodora,  the  handsome  courtesan  whom  he  raised 
to  the  dignity  and  luxury  of  an  empress  on  his  throne  in 
Constantinople.  There  is  the  famous  forest  of  pines, 
stretching  unbroken  twenty  miles  down  the  coast  to 
Rimini,  in  whose  cool  and  breezy  glades  Dante  and 
Boccaccio  walked  and  meditated,  which  Dryden  has 
commemorated,  and  Byron  has  invested  with  the  fas- 
cination of  his  genius  ;  and  under  the  whispering  boughs 
of  which  moved  the  glittering  cavalcade  which  fetched 
the  bride  to  Rimini,  —  the  fair  Francesea,  whose  sinful 
confession  Dante  heard  in  hell. 

We  went  down  to  Ravenna  from  Bologna  one  after- 
noon, through  a  country  level  and  rich,  riding  along 
toward  hazy  evening,  the  land  getting  flatter  as  we  pro- 
ceeded (you  know,  there  is  a  difference  between  level 
and  flat),  through  interminable  mulberry-trees  and  vines, 
and  fields  with  the  tender  green  of  spring,  with  church- 
spires  in  the  rosy  horizon ;  on  till  the  meadows  became 
marshes,  in  which  millions  of  frogs  sang  the  overture  of 
the  opening  year.  Our  arrival,  I  have  reason  to  believe, 
was  an  event  in  the  old  town.  We  had  a  crowd  of 
mouldy  loafers  to  witness  it  at  the  station,  not  one  of 
whom  had  ambition  enough  to  work  to  earn  a  sou  by 
lifting  our  travelling-bags.  We  had  our  hotel  to  our- 
selves, and  wished  that  anybody  else  had  it.  The  rival 
house  was  quite  aware  of  our  advent,  and  watched  us  with 


A  DEAD  CITY.  173 

jealous  eyes;  and  we,  in  turn,  looked  wistfully  at  it,  fof 
our  own  food  w;is  so  scarce  that,  as  an  old  traveller 
we  feared  that  we  shouldn't  have  enough,  until  we  saw 
it  nn  the  tahle,  when  its  quality  made  it  -appear  too  much. 
The  next  morning,  when  I  sallied  nut  to  hire  a  convey- 
ance, I  was  an  object  of  interest  to  the  entire  population, 
who  seemed  to  think  it  very  odd  that  any  one  should 
walk  about  and  explore  the  quiet  streets.  If  I  were  to 
describe  Ravenna,  I  should  say  that  it  is  as  flat  as  Hol- 
land and  as  lively  as  New  London.  There  are  broad 
streets,  with  high  houses,  that  once  were  handsome, 
palaces  that  were  once  the  abode  of  luxury,  gardens 
that  still  bloom,  and  churches  by  the  score.  It  is  an 
open  gate  through  which  one  walks  unchallenged  into 
the  past,  with  little  to  break  the  association  with  the  early 
Christian  ages,  their  monuments  undimmed  by  time,  un- 
touched by  restoration  and  innovation,  the  whole  struck 
with  ecclesiastical  death.  With  all  that  we  saw  that 
day,  —  churches,  basilicas,  mosaics,  statues,  mausoleums, 
—  I  will  not  burden  these  pages ;  but  I  will  set  down 
enough  to  give  you  the  local  color,  and  to  recall  some 
of  the  most  interesting  passages  in  Christian  history  in 
this  out-of-the-way  city  on  the  Adriatic. 

Our  first  pilgrimage  was  to  the  Church  of  St.  Apol- 
linare  Nuova ;  but  why  it  is  called  new  I  do  not  know, 
as  Theodoric  built  it  for  an  Arian  cathedral  in  about 
the  year  500.  It  is  a  noble  interior,  having  twenty-four 
marble  columns  of  gray  Cippolino,  brought  from  Con- 
stantinople, with  composite  capitals,  on  each  of  which  is 
an  impost  with  Latin  crosses  sculptured  on  it.  These 
columns  support  round  arches,  which  divide  the  nave 
from  the  aisles,  and  on  the  whole  length  of  the  wall  of 
the  nave  so  supported  are  superb  mosaics,  full-length 
figures,  in  colors  as  fresh  as  if  done  yesterday,  though 
they  were  executed  thirteen  hundred  years  ago.  The 
mosaic  on  the  left  side — which  is,  perhaps,  the  finest 
one  of  the  period  in  existence  —  is  interesting  on  an- 
other account.  It  represents  the  city  of  Classis,  with 
15* 


174  A  DEAD  CITY. 

sea  and  ships,  and  a  long  procession  of  twenty-two 
virgins  presenting  offerings  to  the  Virgin  and  Child, 
seated  on  a  throne.  The  Virgin  is  surrounded  by 
angels,  and  has  a  glory  round  her  head,  which  shows 
that  homage  is  being  paid  to  her.  It  has  been  supposed, 
from  the  early  monuments  of  Christian  art,  that  the 
worship  of  the  Virgin  is  of  comparatively  recent  origin ; 
but  this  mosaic  would  go  to  show  that  Mariolatry  was 
established  before  the  end  of  the  sixth  century.  Near 
this  church  is  part  of  the  front  of  the  palace  of  Theo- 
doric,  in  which  the  Exarchs  and  Lombard  kings  sub- 
sequently resided.  Its  treasures  and  marbles  Char- 
lemagne carried  off  to  Germany. 


DOWN  TO   THE   PINETA. 

~TTT~E  drove  three  miles  beyond  the  city,  to  tho 
W  Church  of  St.  Apollinare  in  Classe,  a  lonely  edi- 
fice in  a  waste  of  marsh,  a  grand  old  basilica,  a  purer 
>p'.vimen  of  Christian  art  than  Rome  or  any  other  Italian 
town  can  boast.  Just  outside  the  city  gate  stands  a 
Greek  cross  on  a  small  fluted  column,  which  marks  the 
site  of  the  once  magnificent  Basilica  of  St.  Laurentius, 
which  was  demolished  in  the  sixteenth  century,  its  stone 
built  into  a  new  church  in  town,  and  its  rich  marbles  car- 
ried to  all-absorbing  Rome.  It  was  the  last  relic  of  the  old 
port  of  Ca?sarea,  famous  since  the  time  of  Augustus.  A 
marble  column  on  a  green  meadow  is  all  that  remains 
of  a  once  prosperous  city.  Our  road  lay  through  the 
marshy  plain,  across  an  elevated  bridge  over  the  slug- 
gish united  stream  of  the  Ronco  and  Montone,  from 
which  there  is  a  wide  view,  including  the  Pincta  (or 
Pine  Forest),  the  Church  of  St.  Apollinare  in  the  midst 
»f  rice-fields  and  marshes,  and  on  a  clear  day  the  Alps 
and  Apennines. 

I  can  imagine  nothing  more  desolate  than  this  soli- 
tary church,  or  the  approach  to  it.  Laborers  were 
busy  spading  up  the  heavy,  wet  ground,  or  digging 
trenches,  which  instantly  filled  with  water,  for  the  whole 
country  was  afloat.  The  frogs  greeted  us  with  clamor- 
ous chorus  out  of  their  slimy  pools,  and  the  mosquitoes 
attacked  us  as  we  rode  along.  I  noticed  about  on 
the  bogs,  wherever  they  could  find  standing-room,  half- 
Udked  wretches,  with  long  spears,  having  several  prongs, 

175 


1 76  DOWN  TO  THE  PINETA. 

like  tridents,  which  they  thrust  into  the  grass  and  shal- 
low water.  Calling  one  of  them  to  us,  we  found  that 
his  business  was  fishing,  and  that  he  forked  out  ver)' 
fat  .and  edible-looking  fish  with  his  trident.  Shaggy, 
undersized  horses  were  wading  in  the  water,  nipping 
off  the  thin  spears  of  grass.  Close  to  the  church  is  a 
rickety  farmhouse.  If  I  lived  there,  I  would  as  lief  be 
a  fish  as  a  horse. 

The  interior  of  this  primitive  old  basilica  is  lofty  and 
imposing,  with  twenty-four  handsome  columns  of  the 
gray  Cippolino  marble,  and  an  elevated  high  altar  and 
tribune,  decorated  with  splendid  mosaics  of  the  sixth 
century,  —  biblical  subjects,  in  all  the  stiff  faithfulness 
of  the  holy  old  times.  The  marble  floor  is  green  and 
damp  and  slippery.  Under  the  tribune  is  the  crypt, 
where  the  body  of  St.  Apollinaris  used  to  lie  (it  is  now 
under  the  high  altar  above) ;  and,  as  I  desired  to  see 
where  he  used  to  rest,  I  walked  in.  I  also  walked  into 
about  six  inches  of  water,  in  the  dim,  irreligious  light ; 
and  so  made  a  cold-water  Baptist  devotee  of  myself.  In 
the  side  aisles  are  wonderful  old  sarcophagi,  containing 
the  ashes  of  archbishops  of  Ravenna,  so  old  that  the 
owners'  names  are  forgotten  of  two  of  them,  which  shows 
that  a  man  may  build  a  tomb  more  enduring  than  his 
memory.  The  sculptured  bas-reliefs  are  very  interest- 
ing, being  early  Christian  emblems  and  curious  devices, 
—  symbols  of  sheep,  palms,  peacocks,  crosses,  and  the 
four  rivers  of  Paradise  flowing  down  in  stony  streams 
from  stony  sources,  and  monograms,  and  pious  rebuses. 
At  the  entrance  of  the  crypt  is  an  open  stone  book,  called 
the  Breviary  of  Gregory  the  Great.  Detached  frcm  the 
church  is  the  Bell  Tower,  a  circular  campanile  of  a  sort 
peculiar  to  Ravenna,  which  adds  to  the  picturesqueness 
of  the  pile,  and  suggests  the  notion  that  it  is  a  mast 
unshipped  from  its  vessel,  the  church,  which  consequently 
stands  there  water-logged,  with  no  power  to  catch  any 
wind,  of  doctrine  or  other,  and  move.  I  forgot  to  say 
that  the  basilica  was  launched  in  the  year  534. 


DOWN  TO  THE  PINETA.  177 

A  little  weary  with  tin4  good  hut  damp  old  Christians, 

we  ordered  oar  driver  to  continue  across  tin-  mai>h  to 

tin-  Pineta,  whose  dark  iHn-jy  hounded  all  our  hori/on 
toward  the  Adriatic.  It  is  the  largest  unbroken  Hnv>i  in 
Italy,  and  hy  all  odds  the  most  poetic  in  itself  and  its 
associations.  It  is  twenty-five  miles  long,  and  from  one 
to  three  in  hreadth,  a  free  growth  of  stately  pines,  whose 
boughs  are  full  of  music  and  sweet  odors,  —  a  succession 
of  lovely  glades  and  avenues,  with  miles  and  miles  of 
drives  over  the  springy  turf.  At  the  point  where  we 
entered  is  a  farmhouse.  Laborers  had  been  gathering 
the  eones,  whieh  were  heaped  up  in  immense  windrows, 
hundreds  of  feet  in  length.  Boys  and  men  were  busy 
pounding  out  the  seeds  from  the  eones.  The  latter  are 
used  for  fuel,  and  the  former  are  pressed  for  their  oil. 
They  are  also  eaten :  we  have  often  had  them  served  at 
hotel-tables,  and  found  them  rather  tasteless,  but  not 
unpleasant.  The  turf,  as  we  drove  into  the  recesses  of 
the  forest,  was  thickly  covered  with  wild-flowers,  of  many 
colors  and  delicate  forms ;  but  we  liked  best  the  violets, 
for  they  reminded  us  of  home,  though  the  driver  seemed 
to  think  them  less  valuable  than  the  seeds  of  the  pine- 
cones.  A  lovely  day  and  history  and  romance  united 
to  fascinate  us  with  the  place.  We  were  driving  over 
the  spot  where,  eighteen  centuries  ago,  the  Roman  fleet 
used  to  ride  at  anchor.  Here,  it  is  certain,  the  gloomy 
spirit  of  Dante  found  congenial  place  for  meditation,  and 
the  gay  Boccaccio  material  for  fiction.  Here  for  hours, 
day  after  day,  Byron  used  to  gallop  his  horse,  giving 
vent  to  that  restless  impatience  which  could  not  all 
escape  from  his  fiery  pen,  hearing  those  voices  of  a  past 
and  dead  Italy  which  he,  more  truthfully  and  patheti- 
cally than  any  other  poet,  has  put  into  living  verse. 
The  driver  pointed  out  what  is  called  Byron's  Path, 
where  he  was  wont  to  ride.  Everybody  here,  indeed, 
knows  of  Byron;  and  I  think  his  memory  is  more  secure 
than  any  saint  of  them  all  in  their  stone  boxes,  —  partly 
because  his  poetry  has  celebrated  the  region,  perhaps 


178  DOWN  TO  THE  PINETA. 

rather  from  the  perpetuated  tradition  of  his  generosity. 
No  foreigner  was  ever  so  popular  as  he  while  he  lived  at 
Ravenna.  At  least,  the  people  say  so  now,  since  they 
find  it  so  profitable  to  keep  his  memory  alive  and  to  point 
out  his  haunts.  The  Italians,  to  be  sure,  know  how  to 
make  capital  out  of  poets  and  heroes,  and  are  quick  to 
learn  the  curiosity  of  foreigners,  and  to  gratify  it  for  a 
compensation.  But  the  evident  esteem  in  which  Byron's 
memory  is  held  in  the  Armenian  monastery  of  St. 
Lazzare,  at  Venice,  must  be  otherwise  accounted  for. 
The  monks  keep  his  library-room  and  table  as  they 
were  when  he  wrote  there,  and  like  to  show  his  portrait, 
and  tell  of  his  quick  mastery  of  the  difficult  Armenian 
tongue.  We  have  a  notable  example  of  a  Person  who 
became  a  monk  when  he  was  sick ;  but  Byron  accom- 
plished too  much  work  during  the  few  months  he  was  on 
the  Island  of  St.  Lazzare,  both  in  original  composition 
and  in  translating  English  into  Armenian,  for  one  phy- 
sically ruin  3d  and  broken. 


DANTE  AND  BYRON. 

rjlHE  pilgrim  to  Ravenna,  who  has  any  idea  of  what 
I  is  due  to  the  genius  of  Dante,  will  be  disappointed 
when  he  approaches  his  tomb.  Its  situation  is  in  a  not 
very  conspicuous  corner,  at  the  foot  of  a  narrow  street, 
bearing  the  poet's  name,  and  beside  the  Church  of  San 
Francisco,  which  is  interesting  as  containing  the  tombs 
of  the  Polenta  family,  whose  hospitality  to  the  wander- 
ing exile  has  rescued  their  names  from  oblivion.  Op- 
posite the  tomb  is  the  shabby  old  brick  house  of  the 
Polentas,  where  Dante  passed  many  years  of  his  life. 
It  is  tenanted  now  by  all  sorts  of  people,  and  a  dirty 
carriage-shop  in  the  courtyard  kills  the  poetry  of  it. 
Dante  died  in  1321,  and  was  at  first  buried  in  the  neigh- 
boring church  ;  but  this  tomb,  since  twice  renewed,  wag 
erected,  and  his  body  removed  here,  in  1482.  It  is  a 
square  stuccoed  structure,  stained  light  green,  and  cov- 
ered by  a  dome,  —  a  tasteless  monument,  embellished 
with  stucco  medallions,  inside,  of  the  poet,  of  Virgil, 
of  Brunetto  Latini,  the  poet's  master,  and  of  his  patron, 
Guido  da  Polenta.  On  the  sarcophagus  is  the  epitaph, 
composed  in  Latin  by  Dante  himself,  who  seems  to  have 
thought,  with  Shakspeare,  that  for  a  poet  to  make  hi? 
own  epitaph  was  the  safest  thing  to  do.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  mean  appearance  of  this  sepulchre,  there  is  none 
in  all  the  soil  of  Italy  that  the  traveller  from  America 
will  visit  with  deeper  interest.  Near  by  is  the  house 
where  Byron  first  resided  in  Ravenna,  as  a  tablet  re- 
cords. 

179 


i8o  DANTE  AND  BYRON. 

The  people  here  preserve  all  the  memorials  of  Byron  ; 
and,  I  should  judge,  hold  his  memory  in  something  like 
affection.  The  Palace  Guiccioli,  in  which  he  subse- 
quently resided,  is  in  another  part  of  the  town.  He 
spent  over  two  years  in  Ravenna,  and  said  he  preferred 
it  to  any  place  in  Italy.  Why  I  cannot  see  ;  unless  it 
was  remote  from  the  route  of  travel,  and  the  desolation 
of  it  was  congenial  to  him.  Doubtless  he  loved  these 
wide,  marshy  expanses  on  the  Adriatic,  and  especially 
the  great  forest  of  pines  on  its  shore ;  but  Byron  was 
apt  to  be  governed  in  his  choice  of  a  residence  by 
the  woman  with  whom  he  was  intimate.  The  palace 
was  certainly  pleasanter  than  his  gloomy  house  in  the 
Strada  di  Porta  Sisi,  and  the  society  of  the  Countess 
Guiccioli  was  rather  than  otherwise  a  stimulus  to  his 
literary  activity.  At  her  suggestion  he  wrote  the  Pro- 
phecy of  Dante ;  and  the  translation  of  Francesca  da 
.Rimini  was  "  executed  at  Ravenna,  where,  five  centuries 
before,  and  in  the  very  house  in  which  the  unfortunate 
lady  was  born,  Dante's  poem  had  been  composed." 
Some  of  his  finest  poems  were  also  produced  here,  — 
poems  for  which  Venice  is  as  grateful  as  Ravenna. 
Here  he  wrote  "  Marino  Faliero,"  "  The  Two  Foscari," 
"  Morganti  Maggiore,"  "  Sardanapalus,"  "  The  Blues," 
the  fifth  canto  of  "Don  Juan,"  "Cain,"  "Heaven  and 
Earth,"  and  "  The  Vision  of  Judgment."  I  looked  in 
at  the  court  of  the  palace,  —  a  pleasant,  quiet  place,  — 
where  he  used  to  work,  and  tried  to  guess  which  were 
the  windows  of  his  apartments.  The  sun  was  shining 
brightly,  and  a  bird  was  singing  in  the  court ;  but  there 
was  no  other  sign  of  life,  nor  any  thing  to  remind  one 
of  the  profligate  genius  who  was  so  long  a  guest  here. 


RESTING-PLACE    OF    C^ISARS.  —  PIC- 
TURE OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  HERETIC. 

~TT~ERY  different  from  the  tomb  of  Dante,  and  dif- 
V  ferent  in  the  associations  it  awakes,  is  the  Ro- 
tunda or  Mausoleum  of  Theodoric  the  Goth,  outside 
the  Porta  Serrata,  whose  daughter,  Amalasuntha,  as  it 
is  supposed,  about  the  year  530,  erected  this  imposing 
structure  as  a  certain  place  "  to  keep  his  memory  whole 
and  mummy  hid  "  forever.  But  the  Goth  had  not  lain 
in  it  long  before  Arianism  went  out  of  fashion  quite,  and 
the  zealous  Roman  Catholics  despoiled  his  costly  sleep- 
ing-place, and  scattered  his  ashes  abroad.  I  do  not 
know  that  any  dead  person  has  lived  in  it  since.  The 
tomb  is  still  a  very  solid  affair,  —  a  rotunda  built  of  solid 
blocks  of  limestone,  and  resting  on  a  ten-sided  base, 
each  side  having  a  recess  surmounted  by  an  arch.  The 
upper  story  is  also  decagonal,  and  is  reached  by  a  flight 
of  modern  stone  steps.  The  roof  is  composed  of  a  single 
block  of  Istrian  limestone,  scooped  out  like  a  shallow 
bowl  inside ;  and,  being  the  biggest  roof-stone  I  ever 
saw,  I  will  give  you  the  dimensions.  It  is  thirty-six  feet 
in  diameter,  hollowed  out  to  the  depth  of  ten  feet,  four 
feet  thick  at  the  centre,  and  two  feet  nine  inches  at  the 
edges,  and  is  estimated  to  weigh  two  hundred  tons. 
Amalasuntha  must  have  had  help  in  gutting  it  up  there. 
The  lower  story  is  partly  under  water.  The  green  jirass 
of  the  enclosure  in  which  it  stands  is  damp  enough  for 
frogs.  An  old  woman  opened  the  iron  gate  to  let  us  in. 
Whether  she  was  any  relation  of  the  ancient  proprietor, 
16  181 


182  RESTING-PLACE  OF  CMSARS. 

I  did  not  inquire ;  but  she  had  so  much  trouble  in  turn- 
ing the  key  in  the  rusty  lock,  and  letting  us  in,  that  I 
presume  we  were  the  only  visitors  she  has  had  for  some 
centuries. 

Old  women  abound  in  Ravenna ;  at  least,  she  was  not 
young  who  showed  us  the  mausoleum  of  Galla  Placid ia. 
rlacidia  was  also  prudent  and  foreseeing,  and  built  this 
once  magnificent  sepulchre  for  her  own  occupation.  Jt 
is  in  the  form  of  a  Latin  cross,  ibrty-six  feet  in  length 
by  about  forty  in  width.  The  floor  is  paved  with  rich 
marbles ;  the  cupola  is  covered  with  mosaics  of  the  time 
of  the  empress  ;  and  in  the  arch  over  the  door  is  a  fine 
representation  of  the  Good  Shepherd.  Behind  the  altar 
is  the  massive  sarcophagus  of  marble  (its  cover  of  silver 
plates  was  long  ago  torn  off)  in  which  are  literally  the 
ashes  of  the  empress.  She  was  immured  in  it  as  a  mummy, 
in  a  sitting  position,  clothed  in  imperial  robes  ;  and  there 
the  ghastly  corpse  sat  in  a  cypress-wood  chair,  to  be  looked 
at  by  anybody  who  chose  to  peep  through  the  aperture, 
for  more  than  eleven  hundred  years,  till  one  day,  in  1577, 
some  children  introduced  a  lighted  candle,  perhaps  out 
of  compassion  for  her  who  sat  so  long  in  darkness,  when 
her  clothes  caught  fire,  and  she  was  burned  up,  —  a 
warning  to  all  children  not  to  play  with  a  dead  and  dry 
empress.  In  this  nesting-place  are  also  the  tombs  of 
Honorius  II.,  her  brother,  of  Constantius  III.,  her  sec- 
ond husband,  and  of  Honoria,  her  daughter.  There  are 
no  other  undisturbed  tombs  of  the  Caesars  in  existence. 
Hers  is  almost  the  last,  and  the  very  small  last,  of  a 
great  succession.  What  thoughts  of  a  great  empire  in 
ruins  do  not  force  themselves  on  one  in  the  confined 
walls  of  this  little  chamber!  What  a  woman  was  she 
whose  ashes  lie  there  !  She  saw  and  aided  the  ruin  of 
the  empire ;  but  it  may  be  said  of  her,  that  her  vices 
were  greater  than  her  misfortunes.  And  what  a  story 
is  her  life  !  Born  to  the  purple,  educated  in  the  palace 
at  Constantinople,  accomplished  but  not  handsome,  at  the 
age  of  twenty  she  was  in  Koine  when  Alaric  besieged  it 


PICTURE  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  HERETIC.     183 

Carried  oflf  captive  by  the  Goths,  she  became  the  not 
unwilling  object  of  the  passion  of  King  Adolphus  \vlm  at 
length  married  her  at  Narl)onne.  At  the  nuptials  (lie 
king,  in  a  Roman  habit,  occupied  a  seat  lower  than  hers, 
while  she  sat  on  a  throne  habited  as  a  Roman  cm  press, 
and  received  homage.  Fifty  handsome,  youths  bore  to 
her  in  each  hand  a  dish  of  gold,  one  filled  with  coin,  and 
the  other  with  precious  stones,  —  a  small  part  only,  these 
hundred  vessels  of  treasure,  of  the  spoils  the  Goths 
brought  from  her  country.  When  Adolplms,  who  never 
abated  his  fondness  for  his  Roman  bride,  was  assassinated 
at  Barcelona,  she  was  treated  like  a  slave  by  his  as- 
sas-ius,  and  driven  twelve  miles  on  foot  before  the  horse, 
of  his  murderer.  Ransomed  at  length  for  six  hundred 
thousand  measures  of  wheat  by  her  brother  Honorius, 
-who  handed  her  over  struggling  to  Constantius,  one  of 
his  generals.  But,  once  married,  her  reluctance  ceased  ; 
and  she  set  herself  to  advance  the  interests  of  herself 
and  husband,  ruling  him  as  she  had  done  the  first  one. 
Her  purpose  was  accomplished  when  he  was  declared 
joint  emperor  with  Honorius.  He  died  shortly  after ; 
and  scandalous  stories  of  her  intimacy  with  her  brother 
caused  her  removal  to  Constantinople ;  but  she  came 
back  again,  and  reigned  long  as  the  regent  of  her  son, 
Valentinian  III.,  a  feeble  youth,  who  never  grew  to  have 
either  passions  or  talents,  and  was  very  likely,  as  was 
paid,  enervated  by  his  mother  in  dissolute  indulgence, 
so  that  she  might  be  supreme.  But  she  died  at  Rome 
in  450,  much  praised  for  her  orthodoxy  and  her  devotion 
to  the  Trinity.  And  there  was  her  (laughter,  Honoria, 
who  ran  off  with  a  chamberlain,  and  afterward  offered 
to  throw  herself  into  the  arms  of  Attila,  who  wouldn't 
take  her  as  a  gift  at  first,  but  afterward  demanded  her, 
and  fought  to  win  her  and  her  supposed  inheritance. 
But  they  were  a  bad  lot  altogether;  and  it  is  no  credit 
to  a  Christian  of  the  nineteenth  century  to  stay  in  this 
tomb  so  long. 

Near  this  mausoleum  is  the  magnificent  Basilica  of  St. 


184  RESTING-PLACE  OF  CAESARS. 

Vitale,  built  in  the  reign  of  Justinian,  and  consecrated  in 
547.  I  was  interested  to  see  it  because  it  was  erected 
in  confessed  imitation  of  St.  Sophia,  at  Constantinople, 
is  in  the  octagonal  form,  and  has  all  the  accessories 
of  Eastern  splendor,  according  to  the  architectural  au- 
thorities. Its  effect  is  really  rich  and  splendid  ;  and  it 
rather  dazzled  us  with  its  maze  of  pillars,  its  upper  and 
lower  columns,  its  galleries,  complicated  capitals,  arches 
on  arches,  and  Byzantine  intricacies.  To  the  student 
of  the  very  early  ecclesiastical  art,  it  must  be  an  object 
of  more  interest  than  even  of  wonder.  But  what  I  cared 
most  to  see  were  the  mosaics  in  the  choir,  executed  in 
the  time  of  Justinian,  and  as  fresh  and  beautiful  as  on 
the  day  they  were  made.  The  mosaics  and  the  exquisite 
arabesques  on  the  roof  of  the  choir,  taken  together,  are 
certainly  unequalled  by  any  other  early  church-deco- 
ration I  have  seen ;  and  they  are  as  interesting  as  they 
are  beautiful.  Any  description  of  them  is  impossible ; 
but  mention  may  be  made  of  two  characteristic  groups, 
remarkable  for  execution,  and  having  yet  a  deeper  in- 
terest. 

In  one  compartment  of  the  tribune  is  the  figure  of  the 
Emperor  Justinian,  holding  a  vase  with  consecrated  offer- 
ings, and  surrounded  by  courtiers  and  soldiers.  Oppo- 
site is  the  figure  of  the  Empress  Theodora,  holding  a 
similar  vase,  and  attended  by  ladies  of  her  court.  There  is 
a  refinement  and  an  elegance  about  the  empress,  a  grace 
and  sweet  dignity,  that  is  fascinating.  This  is  royalty, 
—  stately  and  cold  perhaps :  even  the  mouth  may  be 
a  little  cruel,  I  begin  to  perceive,  as  I  think  of  her ;  but 
she  wears  the  purple  by  divine  right.  I  have  not  seen 
on  any  walls  any  figure  walking  out  of  history  so  cap- 
tivating as  this  lady,  who  would  seem  to  have  been 
worthy  of  apotheosis  in  a  Christian  edifice.  Can  there 
be  any  doubt  that  this  lovely  woman  was  orthodox? 
She,  also,  has  a  story,  which  you  doubtless  have  been 
recalling  as  you  'read.  Is  it  worth  while  to  repeat  even 
its  outlines?  This  charming  regal  woman  was  the 


PICTURE  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  HERETIC.    18$ 

daughter  of  the  keeper  of  the  bears  in  the  circus  at 
Constantinople;  and  she  early  went  upon  the  stu 
a  pantomimist  and  buffoon.  She  was  beautiful,  with 
regular  features,  a  little  pale,  but  with  a  tinge  of  natural 
color,  vivacious  eyes,  and  an  easy  motion  that  displayed 
to  advantage  the  graces  of  her  small  but  elegant  figure. 
I  can  see  all  that  in  the  mosaic.  But  she  sold  her  charms 
to  whoever  cared  to  buy  them  in  Constantinople;  she 
led  a  life  of  dissipation  that  cannot  be  even  hinted  at  in 
these  days;  she  went  off  to  Egypt  as  the  concubine  of 
a  general ;  was  deserted,  and  destitute  even  to  misery 
in  Cairo ;  wandered  about  a  vagabond  in  many  Eastern 
cities,  and  won  the  reputation  everywhere  of  the  most 
beautiful  courtesan  of  her  time  ;  re-appeared  in  Constan- 
tinople ;  and,  having,  it  is  said,  a  vision  of  her  future, 
suddenly  took  to  a  pretension  of  virtue  and  plain  sew- 
ing ;  contrived  to  gain  the  notice  of  Justinian,  to  inflame 
his  passions  as  she  did  those  of  all  the  world  besides, 
to  captivate  him  into  first  an  alliance,  and  at  length  a 
marriage.  The  emperor  raised  her  to  an  equal  seat 
with  himself  on  his  throne ;  and  she  was  worshipped 
as  empress  in  that  city  where  she  had  been  admired 
as  harlot.  And  on  the  throne  she  was  a  wise  woman, 
courageous  and  chaste;  and  had  her  palaces  on  the 
Bosphorus ;  and  took  good  care  of  her  beauty,  and  in- 
dulged in  the  pleasures  of  a  good  table  ;  had  ministers 
who  kissed  her  feet ;  a  crowd  of  women  and  eunuchs  in 
her  secret  chambers,  whose  passions  she  indulged  ;  was 
avaricious  and  sometimes  cruel ;  and  founded  a  convent 
for  the  irreclaimably  bad  of  her  own  sex,  some  of  whom 
liked  it,  and  some  of  whom  threw  themselves  into  the 
sea  in  despair ;  and  when  she  died  was  an  irreparable 
loss  to  her  emperor.  So  that  it  seems  to  me  it  is  a  pity 
that  the  historian  should  say  that  she  was  devout,  but  a 
little  heretic. 


A   HIGH   DAY  IN   ROME. 


PALM   SUNDAY  IN   ST.   PETER'S. 


TJHE  splendid  and  tiresome  ceremonies  of  Holy  Week 
set  in  ;  also  the  rain,  which  held  up  for  two  days. 
Rome  without  the  sun,  and  with  rain  and  the  bone- 
penetrating  damp  cold  of  the  season,  is  a  wretched 
place.  Squalor  and  ruins  and  cheap  splendor  need  the 
sun  ;  the  galleries  need  it  ;  the  black  old  masters  in  the 
dark  corners  of  the  gaudy  churches  need  it  ;  I  think 
scarcely  any  thing  of  a  cardinal's  big,  blazing  footman, 
unless  the  sun  shines  on  him,  and  radiates  from  his 
broad  back  and  his  splendid  calves  ;  the  models,  who 
get  up  in  theatrical  costumes,  and  get  put  into  pictures, 
and  pass  the  world  over  for  Roman  peasants  (and 
beautiful  many  of  them  are)  can't  sit  on  the  Spanish 
Stairs  in  indolent  pose  when  it  rains  ;  the  streets  are 
slimy  and  horrible  ;  the  carriages  try  to  run  over  you, 
ind  stand  a  very  good  chance  of  succeeding,  where  there 
are  no  sidewalks,  and  you  are  limping  along  on  the  slip- 
pery, round  cobble-stones  ;  you  can't  get  into  the  coun- 
try, which  is  the  best  part  of  Rome  :  but  when  the  sun 
shines  all  this  is  changed;  the  dear  old  dirty  town  exer- 
cises its  fascinations  on  you  then,  and  you  speedily  forget 
your  recent  misery. 

Holy  Week  is  a  vexation  to  most  people.  All  the 
world  crowds  here  to  see  its  exhibitions  and  theatrical 
shows,  and  works  hard  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  them,  and 
is  tired  out,  if  not  disgusted,  at  the  end.  The  things  to 
see  and  hear  are  Palm  Sunday  in  St.  Peter's  ;  singing 
of  the  miserere  by  the  pope's  choir  on  Wednesday, 

189 


igo         PALM  SUNDA  Y  IN  ST.  PE  TER  'S. 

Thursday,  and  Friday  in  the  Sistine  Chapel ;  washing 
of  the  pilgrims'  feet  in  a  chapel  of  St.  Peter's,  and  serv- 
ing the  apostles  at  table  by  the  pope  on  Thursday,  with 
a  papal  benediction  from  the  balcony  afterwards ;  Easter 
Sunday,  with  the  illumination  of  St.  Peter's  in  the  even- 
ing ;  and  fireworks  (this  year  in  front  of  St.  Peter's  in 
Montorio)  Monday  evening.  Raised  seats  are  built  up 
about  the  high  altar  under  the  dome  in  St.  Peter's,  which 
will  accommodate  a  thousand,  and  perhaps  more,  ladies ; 
and  for  these  tickets  are  issued  without  numbers,  and 
for  twice  as  many  as  they  will  seat.  Gentlemen  who 
are  in  evening  dress  are  admitted  to  stand  in  the  re- 
served places  inside  the  lines  of  soldiers.  For  tlue 
miserere  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  tickets  are  also  issued.  As 
there  is  only  room  for  about  four  hundred  ladies,  and  a 
thousand  and  more  tickets  are  given  out,  you  may  ima- 
gine the  scramble.  Ladies  go  for  hours  before  the  singing 
begins,  and  make  a  grand  rush  when  the  doors  are  open. 
I  do  not  know  any  sight  so  unseemly  and  cruel  as  a 
crowd  of  women  intent  on  getting  in  to  such  a  ceremony  : 
they  are  perfectly  rude  and  unmerciful  to  each  other. 
They  push  and  trample  one  another  under  foot ;  veils 
and  dresses  are  torn ;  ladies  faint  away  in  the  scrim- 
mage, and  only  the  strongest  and  most  unscrupulous  get 
in.  I  have  heard  some  say,  who  have  been  in  the  pell- 
mell,  that,  not  content  with  elbowing  and  pushing  and 
pounding,  some  women  even  stick  pins  into  those  who 
are  in  the  way.  I  hope  this  latter  is  not  true  ;  but  it  is 
certain  that  the  conduct  of  most  of  the  women  is  brutal. 
A  weak  or  modest  or  timid  woman  stands  no  more 
chance  than  she  would  in  a  herd  of  infuriated  Campagna 
cattle.  The  same  scenes  are  enacted  in  the  efforts  to 
see  the  pope  wash  feet,  and  serve  at  the  table.  For  the 
possession  of  the  seats  under  the  dome  on  Palm  Sunday 
and  Easter  there  is  a  like  crush.  The  ceremonies  do 
not  begin  until  half-past  nine ;  but  ladies  go  between 
five  and  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  when  the  pas- 
gages  are  open  they  make  a  grand  rush.  The  seats, 


PALM  SUNDA  Y  IN  ST.  PETER 'S.          191 

except  those  saved  for  the  nobility,  arc  soon  all  taken  , 
and  the  ladies  who  come  after  seven  are  lucky  it'  they 
ean  -j;et  within  the  charmed  circle,  and  find  a  spot  to  sit 
down  on  a  camp-stool.  They  can  then  see  only  a  part 
of  the  proceedings,  and  have  a  weary,  exhausting  time 
of  it  for  hours.  This  year  Rome  is  more  crowded 
than  ever  before.  There  are  American  ladies  enough 
to  fill  all  the  reserved  places  ;  and  I  fear  they  are  ener- 
getic enough  to  get  their  share  of  them. 

It  rained  Sunday ;  but  there  was  a  steady  stream  of 
people  and  carriages  all  the  morning  pouring  over  the 
Bridge  of  St.  Angclo,  and  discharging  into  the  piazza 
of  St.  Peter's.  It  was  after  nine  when  I  arrived  on  the 
ground.  There  was  a  crowd  of  carriages  under  the 
colonnades,  and  a  heavy  fringe  in  front  of  them  ;  but 
the  hundreds  of  people  moving  over  the  piazza,  and  up 
the  steps  to  the  entrances,  made  only  the  impression  of 
dozens  in  the  vast  space.  I  do  not  know  if  there  are 
people  enough  in  Rome  to  fill  St.  Peter's  ;  certainly  there 
was  no  appearance  of  a  crowd  as  we  entered,  although 
they  had  been  pouring  in  all  the  morning,  and  still 
thronged  the  doors.  I  heard  a  traveller  say  that  he  fol 
lowed  ten  thousand  soldiers  into  the  church,  and  then 
lost  them  from  sight :  they  disappeared  in  the  side 
chapels.  He  did  not  make  his  affidavit  as  to  the  num- 
ber of  soldiers.  The  interior  area  of  the  building  is  not 
much  greater  than  the  square  of  St.  Mark  in  Venice. 
To  go  into  the  great  edifice  is  almost  like  going  out  doors. 
Lines  of  soldiers  kept  a  wide  passage  clear  from  the  front 
door  away  down  to  the  high  altar ;  and  there  was  a  good 
mass  of  spectators  on  the  outside.  The  tribunes  for  the 
ladies,  built  up  under  the  dome,  were,  of  course,  filled 
with  masses  of  ladies  in  solemn  black  ;  and  there  was 
more  or  less  of  a  press  of  people  surging  about  in  that 
vicinity.  Thousands  of  people  were  also  roaming  about 
in  the  great  spaces  of  the  edifice ;  but  there  was  no- 
where else  any  thing  like  a  crowd.  It  had  very  much 
the  appearance  of  a  large  fair-ground,  with  littlt  crowda 


192          PALM  SUNDA  Y  IN  ST.  PETER  VSl 

about  favorite  booths.  Gentlemen  in  dress-coats  were 
admitted  to  the  circle  under  the  dome.  The  pope'a 
choir  was  stationed  in  a  gallery  there  opposite  the  high 
altar.  Back  of  the  altar  was  a  wide  space  for  the  dig- 
nitaries; seats  were  there,  also,  for  ambassadors  and 
those  born  to  the  purple ;  and  the  pope's  seat  was  on  a 
raised  dais  at  the  end.  Outsiders  could  see  nothing  of 
what  went  on  within  there ;  and  the  ladies  under  the 
dome  could  only  partially  see,  in  the  seats  they  had 
fought  so  gallantly  to  obtain. 

St.  Peter's  is  a  good  place  for  grand  processions  and 
ceremonies  ;  but  it  is  a  poor  one  for  viewing  them.  A 
procession  which  moves  down  the  nave  is  hidden  by  the 
soldiers  who  stand  on  cither  side,  or  is  only  visible  by 
sections  as  it  passes :  there  is  no  good  place  to  get  the 
grand  effect  of  the  masses  of  color,  and  the  total  of  the 
gorgeous  pageantry.  I  should  like  to  see  the  display 
upon  a  grand  stage,  and  enjoy  it  in  a  coup  d'ceil.  It  is 
a  fine  study  of  color  and  effect,  and  the  groupings  are 
admirable  ;  but  the  whole  affair  is  nearly  lost  to  the  mass 
of  spectators.  It  must  be  a  sublime  feeling  to  one  in  the 
procession  to  walk  about  in  such  monstrous  fine  clothes ; 
but  what  would  his  emotions  be  if  more  people  could  see 
him  1  The  grand  altar  stuck  up  under  the  dome,  not 
only  breaks  the  effect  of  what  would  be  the  fine  sweep 
of  the  nave  back  to  the  apse,  but  it  cuts  off  all  view  of 
the  celebration  of  the  mass  behind  it,  and,  in  effect, 
reduces  what  should  be  the  great  point  of  display  in  the 
church  to  a  mere  chapel.  And,  when  you  add  to  that 
the  temporary  tribunes  erected  under  the  dome  for  seat- 
ing the  ladies,  the  entire  nave  is  shut  off  from  a  view 
of  the  gorgeous  ceremony  of  high  mass.  The  effect 
would  be  incomparable  if  one  could  stand  in  the  door, 
or  anywhere  in  the  nave,  and,  as  in  other  churches, 
look  down  to  the  end  upon  a  great  platform,  with  the  high 
altar  and  all  the  sublime  spectacle  in  full  view,  with  the 
blaze  of  candles  and  the  clouds  of  incense  rising  in  the 
distance. 


PALM  SUNDA  Y  IN  ST.  PE  TER  'S.         193 

At  half-past  nine  the  great  doors  opened,  and  the  pro- 
cession l><"_ran,  in  slow  and  stately  moving  i'ashion,  to 
enter.  One  saw  a  throng  of  ecclesiastics  in  robes  and 
ermine;  the  white  plumes  of  the  Guard  Noble;  the 
panes  and  chamberlains  in  scarlet;  other  pages,  or  what 
not,  in  black  short-clothes,  short  swords,  gold  chains, 
cloak  hanging  from  the  shoulder,  and  stiff  white  ruffs ; 
thirty-six  cardinals  in  violet  robes,  witli  high,  mitre- 
shaped  white  silk  hats,  that  looked  not  unlike  the  paste- 
board "trainer-caps"  that  boys  wear  when  they  play 
soldier;  crucifixes,  and  a  blazoned  banner  here  and 
there  ;  and,  at  last,  the  pope,  in  his  red  chair,  ^borne  on 
the  shoulders  of  red  lackeys,  heaving  alon^  in  a  sea- 
sicky  motion,  clad  in  scarlet  and  gold,  with  a  silver 
mitre  on  his  head,  feebly  making  the  papal  benediction 
with  two  upraised  fingers,  and  moving  his  lips  in  blessing. 
As  the  pope  came  in,  a  supplementary  choir  of  men  and 
soprano  hybrids,  stationed  near  the  door,  set  up  a  high, 
welcoming  song,  or  chant,  which  echoes  rather  finely 
through  the  building.  All  the  music  of  the  day  is 
vocal. 

The  procession  having  reached  its  destination,  and 
disappeared  behind  the  altar  of  the  dome,  the  pope  dis- 
mounted, and  took  his  seat  on  his  throne.  The  blessing 
of  the  palms  began,  the  cardinals  first  approaching,  and 
afterwards  the  members  of  the  diplomatic  corps,  the 
archbishops  and  bishops,  the  heads  of  the  religious 
orders,  and  such  private  persons  as  have  had  permission 
to  do  so.  I  had  previously  seen  the  palms  carried  in  by 
servants  in  great  baskets.  It  is,  perhaps,  not  necessary 
to  say  that  they  are  not  the  poetical  green  waving  palms, 
but  stiff  sort  of  wands,  woven  out  of  dry,  yellow,  split 
palm-leaves,  sometimes  four  or  five  feet  in  length,  braided 
into  the  semblance  of  a  crown  on  top,  — a  kind  of  rough 
basket-work.  The  palms  having  been  blessed,  a  proces- 
sion was  again  formed  down  the  nave  and  out  the  door, 
all  in  it "  carrying  palms  in  their  hands,"  the  yellow  color 
of  which  added  a  new  element  of  pieturesqueness  to  the 
17 


194          PALM  SUN  DA  Y  IN  ST.  PE  TER  >S. 

splendid  pageant.  The  pope  was  carried  as  before, 
and  bore  in  his  hand  a  short,  braided  palm,  with  golo 
woven  in,  flowers  added,  and  the  monogram  I.  H.  S, 
worked  in  the  top.  It  is  the  pope's  custom  to  give  this 
away  when  the  ceremony  is  over.  Last  year  he  pre- 
sented it  to  an  American  Jady,  whose  devotion  attracted 
him  :  this  year,  I  saw  it  go  away  in  a  gilded  coach  in 
the  hands  of  an  ecclesiastic.  The  procession  disappeared 
through  the  great  portal  into  the  vestibule,  and  the  door 
closed.  In  a  moment,  somebody  knocked  three  times 
on  the  door :  it  opened,  and  the  procession  returned, 
and  moved  again  to  the  rear  of  the  altar,  the  singers 
marching  with  it  and  chanting.  The  cardinals  then 
changed  their  violet  for  scarlet  robes ;  and  high  mass,  for 
an  hour,  was  celebrated  by  a  cardinal  priest :  and  I  was 
told  that  it  was  the  pope's  voice  that  we  heard,  high  and 
clear,  singing  the  passion.  The  choir  made  the  responses, 
and  performed  at  intervals.  The  singing  was  not  with- 
out a  certain  power  ;  indeed,  it  was  marvellous  how  some 
of  the  voices  really  filled  the  vast  spaces  of  the  edifice, 
and  the  choruses  rolled  in  solemn  waves  of  sound  through 
the  arches.  The  singing,  with  the  male  sopranos,  is  not 
to  my  taste  ;  but  it  cannot  be  denied  that  it  had  a  wild 
and  strange  effect. 

While  this  was  going  on  behind  the  altar,  the  people 
outside  were  wandering  about,  looking  at  each  other,  and 
on  the  watch  not  to  miss  any  of  the  shows  of  the  day. 
People  were  talking,  chattering,  and  greeting  each  other 
as  they  might  do  in  the  street.  Here  and  there  some- 
body was  kneeling  on  the  pavement,  unheeding  the 
passing  throng.  At  several  of  the  chapels,  services  were 
being  conducted  ;  and  there  was  a  large  congregation,  an 
ordinary  church  full,  about  each  of  them.  But  the  most 
of  those  present  seemed  to  regard  it  as  a  spectacle  only ; 
and,  as  a  display  of  dress,  costumes,  and  nationalities,  it 
was  almost  unsurpassed.  There  are  few  more  wonder- 
ful sights  in  this  world  than  an  Englishwoman  in  what 
she  considers  full  dress.  An  English  dandy  is  also  a 


PAL M  SUNDA  Y  IN  ST.  FE  TER  'S  195 

pleasing  object.  For  my  part,  as  I  have  hinted,  I  liko 
almost  as  well  as  any  thing  the  big  iootmen, —  th" 
K-arlet.  breeches  and  blue,  gold-embroidered  coats.  I 
stood  in  front  of  one  of  the  fine  creations  for  some  time, 
and  contemplated  him  as  one  does  the  Farnese  Hercules. 
One  likes  to  see  to  what  a  splendor  his  species  can  come, 
even  if  the  brains  have  all  run  down  into  the  calves  of 
the  legs.  There  were  also  the  pages,  the  officers  of  the 
pope's  household,  in  costumes  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  the 
pope's  Swiss  guard  in  the  showy  harlequin  uniform  de- 
signed by  Michael  Angelo ;  the  foot-soldiers  in  white 
short-clothes,  which  threatened  to  burst,  and  let  them  ily 
into  pieces ;  there  were  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
loafers  and  loungers,  from  every  civilized  country,  jabber- 
ing in  all  the  languages ;  there  were  beggars  in  rags,  and 
boors  in  coats  so  patched,  that  there  was  probably  none 
of  the  original  material  left ;  there  were  groups  of  peas- 
ants from  the  Campagna,  the  men  in  short  jackets  and 
sheepskin  breeches  with  the  wool  side  out,  the  women 
with  gay-colored  folded  cloths  on  their  heads,  and  coarse, 
woollen  gowns  ;  a  squad  of  wild-looking  Spanish  gypsies, 
burning-eyed,  olive-skinned,  hair  long,  black,  crinkled, 
and  greasy,  as  wild  in  raiment  as  in  face ;  priests  and 
friars,  Zouaves  in  jaunty  light  gray  and  scarlet ;  rags  and 
velvets,  silks  and  serge  cloths,  —  a  cosmopolitan  gath- 
ering poured  into  the  world's  great  place  of  meeting,  — 
a  fine  religious  Vanity  Fair  on  Sunday. 

There  came  an  impressive  moment  in  all  this  con- 
fusion, a  point  of  august  solemnity.  Up  to  that  instant, 
what  with  chanting  and  sinking  the  many  services,  and 
the  noise  of  talking  and  walking,  there  was  a  wild  Babel. 
But  at  the  stroke  of  the  bell  and  the  elevation  of  the 
Host,  down  went  the  muskets  of  the  guard  with  one 
clang  on  the  marble ;  the  soldiers  kneeled ;  the  multitude 
in  the  nave,  in  the  aisles,  at  all  the  chapels,  kneeled  ;  and 
for  a  minute  in  that  vast  edifice  there  was  perfect  stillness  : 
if  the  whole  great  concourse  had  been  swept  from  the 
earth,  the  spot  where  it  lately  was  could  not  have  been 


196          PALM  SUNDAY  IN  ST.  PETER^S. 

more  silent.  And  then  the  military  order  went  down 
the  line,  the  soldiers  rose,  the  crowd  rose,  and  the  mass 
and  the  hum  went  on. 

It  was  all  over  before  one ;  and  the  pope  was  borne 
out  again,  and  the  vast  crowd  began  to  discharge  itself. 
But  it  was  a  long  time  before  the  carriages  were  all  filled 
and  rolled  off'.  I  stood  for  a  half-hour  watching  the 
stream  go  by, — the  pompous  soldiers,  the  peasants  and 
citizens,  the  dazzling  equipages,  and  jaded,  exhausted 
women  in  black,  who  had  sat  or  stood  half  a  day  under 
the  dome,  and  could  get  no  carriage ;  and  the  great 
state  coaches  of  the  cardinals,  swinging  high  in  the  air, 
painted  and  gilded,  with  three  noble  footmen  hanging 
on  behind  each,  and  a  cardinal's  broad  face  in  the 
window. 


VEsuviua 


CLIMBING   A  VOLCANO. 

"TjlVERYBODY  who  comes  to  Naples,  — that  is, 
I  'J  everybody  except  the  lady  who  fell  from  her 
horse  the  other  day  at  Resina,  and  injured  her  shoulder, 
as  she  was  mounting  ibr  the  ascent,  —  everybody,  I  say, 
goes  up  Vesuvius,  and  nearly  every  one  writes  impres- 
sions and  descriptions  of  the  performance.  If  you  be- 
lieve the  tales  of  travellers,  it  is  an  undertaking  of  great 
hazard,  an  experience-  of  frightful  emotions.  How 
unsafe  it  is,  especially  for  ladies,  I  heard  twenty  times 
in  Naples  before  I  had  been  there  a  day.  Why,  there 
was  a  lady  thrown  from  her  horse  and  nearly  killed, 
only  a  week  a<_ro ;  and  she  still  lay  ill  at  the  next  hotel,  a 
witness  of  the  truth  of  the  story.  I  imagined  her  plunged 
down  a  precipice  of  lava,  or  pitched  over  the  lip  of  the 
crater,  and  only  rescued  by  the  devotion  of  a  gallant 
guide,  who  threatened  to  let  go  of  her  if  she  didn't  pay 
him  twenty  francs  instantly.  This  story,  which  will  live 
and  grow  for  years  in  this  region,  a  waxing  and  never- 
waning  peril  of  the  volcano,  I  found,  subsequently,  had 
the  foundation  I  have  mentioned  above.  The  lady  did 
go  to  Resina  in  order  to  make  the  ascent  of  Vesuvius, 
mounted  a  horse  there,  fell  off,  being  utterly  unhorsewo- 
manly,  and  hurt  herself;  but  her  injury  had  no  more 
to  do  with  Vesuvius  than  it  had  with  the  entrance  of 
Victor  Emanuel  into  Naples,  which  took  place  a  couple 
of  weeks  alter.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  it  is  the  fashion 
to  write  descriptions  of  Vesu\ius;  and  you  might  as  well 
have  mine,  which  I  shall  give  to  )  ou  iu  rough  outline. 


200  CLIMBING  A   VOLCANO. 

There  came  a  day  when  the  Tramontane  ceased  to 
blow  down  on  us  the  cold  air  of  the  snowy  Apennines, 
and  the  white  cap  of  Vesuvius,  which  is,  by  the  way, 
worn  generally  like  the  caps  of  the  Neapolitans,  drifted 
inland  instead  of  toward  the  sea.  Warmer  weather  had 
come  to  make  the  bright  sunshine  no  longer  a  mockery. 
For  some  days  I  had  been  getting  the  gauge  of  the 
mountain.  With  its  white  plume  it  is  a  constant  quan- 
tity in  the  landscape  :  one  sees  it  from  every  point  of 
view  ;  and  we  had  been  scarcely  anywhere  that  volcanic 
remains,  or  signs  of  such  action,  —  a  thin  crust  shaking 
under  our  feet,  as  at  Solfatara,  where  blasts  of  sulphur- 
ous steam  drove  in  our  faces,  —  did  not  remind  us  that 
the  whole  ground  is  uncertain,  and  undermined  by  the  sub- 
terranean fires  that  have  Vesuvius  for  a  chimney.  All 
the  coast  of  the  bay,  within  recent  historic  periods,  in 
different  spots  at  different  times,  has  risen  and  sunk  and 
risen  again,  in  simple  obedience  to  the  pulsations  of  the 
great  fiery  monster  below.  It  puffs  up  or  sinks,  like  the 
crust  of  a  baking  apple-pie.  This  region  is  evidently 
not  done;  and  I  think  it  not  unlikely  it  may  have  to  be 
turned  over  again  before  it  is.  We  had  seen  where  Her- 
culaneum  lies  under  the  lava  and  under  the  town  of  Re- 
sina ;  we  had  walked  those  clean  and  narrow  streets  of 
Pompeii,  and  seen  the  workmen  picking  away  at  the 
embedded  gravel,  sand,  and  ashes  which  still  cover 
nearly  two-thirds  of  the  nice  little,  tight  little  Roman 
city ;  we  had  looked  at  the  black  gashes  on  the  moun- 
tain-sides, where  the  lava  streams  had  gushed  and  rolled 
and  twisted  over  vineyards  and  villas  and  villages ;  and 
we  decided  to  take  a  nearer  look  at  the  immediate  cause 
of  all  this  abnormal  state  of  things. 

In  the  morning  when  I  awoke  the  sun  was  just  rising 
behind  Vesuvius ;  and  there  was  a  mighty  display  of  gold 
and  crimson  in  that  quarter,  as  if  the  curtain  was  about 
to  be  lifted  on  a  grand  performance,  —  say  a  ballet  at 
San  Carlo,  which  is  the  only  thing  the  Neapolitans  think 
worth  looking  at.  Straight  up  in  the  air,  out  of  tha 


CLIMBING  A   VOLCANO.  201 

mountain,  rose  a  white  ]>illar,  spreading  out  at.  the  top 
like  a  palm-tree,  or,  to  compare  it  to  something  I  have 
seen,  to  the1  Italian  piues,  that  come  so  picturesquely  into 
all  these  Naples  pictures.  If  you  will  believe  me,  that 
pillar  of  steam  was  like  a  column  of  fire,  from  the  sun 
shining  on  and  through  it,  and  perhaps  from  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  background  of  crimson  clouds  and  blue  and 
gold  sky,  spread  out  there  and  hung  there  in  royal  and 
extravagant  profusion,  to  make  a  highway  and  a  renal 
gateway,  through  which  I  could  just  then  see  coming  the 
horses  and  the  chariot  of  a  southern  perfect  day.  They 
said  that  the  tree-shaped  cloud  was  the  sign  of  an  erup- 
tion; but  the  hotel-keepers  here  are  always  predicting 
that.  The  eruption  is  usually  about  two  or  three  weeks 
distant ;  and  the  hotel  proprietors  get  this  information 
from  experienced  guides,  who  observe  the  action  of  the 
water  in  the  wells ;  so  that  there  can  be  no  mistake  about 
it. 

We  took  carriages  at  nine  o'clock  to  Resina,  a  drive 
of  four  miles,  and  one  of  exceeding  interest,  if  you  wish 
to  see  Naples  life.  The  way  is  round  the  curving  bay 
by  the  sea;  but  so  continuously  built  up  is  it.  and  so 
enclosed  with  high  walls  of  villas,  through  the  open 
gates  of  which  the  golden  oranges  gleam,  that  you  seem 
never  to  leave  the  city.  The  streets  and  quays  swarm 
with  the  most  vociferous,  dirty,  multitudinous  life.  It  is 
a  drive  through  Rag  Fair.  The  tall,  whitey-ycllow 
houses  fronting  the  water,  six,  seven,  eight  stories  high, 
are  full  as  bee-hives ;  people  are  at  all  the  open  windows ; 
garments  hang  from  the  balconies  and  from  poles  thrust 
out;  up  every  narrow,  gloomy,  ascending  street  are 
crowds  of  Struggling  human  shapes  ;  and  you  see  how 
like  herrings  in  a  box  are  packed  the  over  half  a  million 
people  of  Naples.  In  front  of  the  houses  are  the  mar- 
kets in  the  open  air,  —  fish,  vegetables,  carts  of  oranges; 
in  the  sun  sit  women  spinning  from  distaffs  or  weaving 
fishing-nets;  and  rows  of  children  who  were  never  washed 
and  never  clothed  but  once,  and  whose  gai  incuts  have 


202  CLIMBING  A   VOLCANO. 

nearly  wasted  away ;  beggars,  fishermen  in  red  caps, 
sailors,  priests,  donkeys,  fruit-venders,  street-musicians, 
carriages,  carts,  two-wheeled  break-down  vehicles,  —  tho 
whole  tangled  in  one  wild  roar  and  rush  and  Babel,  —  a 
shifting,  varied  panorama  of  color,  rags,  —  a  pandemonium 
such  as  the  world  cannot  show  elsewhere,  —  that  is  what 
one  sees  on  the  road  to  Resina.  The  drivers  all  drive 
in  the  streets  here  as  if  they  held  a  commission  from  the 
Devil,  cracking  their  whips,  shouting  to  their  horses,  and 
dashing  into  the  thickest  tangle  with  entire  recklessness. 
They  have  one  cry,  used  alike  for  getting  more  speed  out 
of  their  horses  or  for  checking  them,  or  in  warning  to 
the  endangered  crowds  on  foot.  It  is  an  exclamatory 
grunt,  which  may  be  partially  expressed  by  the  letters 
44  a-e-ugh."  Everybody  shouts  it, — mule-driver,  "coachee," 
or  cattle  driver ;  and  even  I,  a  passenger,  fancied  I  could 
do  it  to  disagreeable  perfection  after  a  time.  Out  of  this 
throng  in  the  streets  I  like  to  select  the  meek,  patient, 
diminutive  little  donkeys,  with  enormous  panniers  that 
almost  hide  them.  One  would  have  a  woman  seated  on 
top,  with  a  child  in  one  pannier  and  cabbages  in  the 
other;  another,  with  an  immense  stock  of  market-greens 
on  his  back,  or  big  baskets  of  oranges,  or  with  a  row  of 
wine-casks  and  a  man  seated  behind,  adhering,  by  some 
unknown  law  of  adhesion,  to  the  sloping  tail.  Then 
there  was  the  cart  drawn  by  one  diminutive  donkey,  or 
by  an  ox,  or  by  an  ox  and  a  donkey,  or  by  a  donkey  and 
horse  abreast,  —  never  by  any  possibility  a  matched  team. 
And,  funniest  of  all,  was  the  high,  two-wheeled  caleche, 
with  one  seat,  and  top  thrown  back,  with  long  thills  and 

Cr  horse.  Upon  this  vehicle  were  piled,  Heaven  knows 
r,  behind,  before,  on  the  thills,  and  underneath  the 
high  seat,  sometimes  ten,  and  not  seldom  as  many  as 
eighteen  people,  —  men,  women,  and  children,  —  all  in 
flaunting  rags,  with  a  colored  scarf  here  and  there,  or  a  gay 
petticoat,  or  a  scarlet  cap,  —  perhaps  a  priest,  with  broad 
black  hat,  in  the  centre,  —  driving  along  like  a  comet,  the 
poor  horse  in  a  gallop,  he  bells  on  his  ornamented  sad- 


CLIMBING  A   VOLCANO.  203 

die  merrily  jingling,  and  the  whole  load  in  a  roar  of  mer- 
riment. 

But  we  shall  never  get  to  Vesuvius  at  this  rate.  I 
will  not  even  stop  to  examine  the  macaroni  manufacto- 
ries on  the  road.  The  long  strips  of  it  were  hung  out  on 
poles  to  dry  in  the  streets,  and  to  get  a  rich  color  from 
the  dirt  and  dust,  to  say  nothing  of  its  contact  with  the 
filthy  people  who  were  making  it.  I  am  very  fond  of 
macaroni  At  Resina  we  take  horses  for  the  as< -nit. 
Wo  had  sent  ahead  for  a  guide  and  horses  for  our  party 
of  ten ;  but  we  found  besides,  I  should  think,  pretty 
nearly  the  entire  population  of  the  locality  awaiting  us, 
not  to  count  the  importunate  beggars,  the  hags,  male  and 
female,  and  the  ordinary  loafers  of  the  place.  We  were 
In-Mcged  to  take  this  and  that  horse  or  mule,  to  buy 
walking-sticks  for  the  climb,  to  purchase  lava  cut  into 
charms,  and  veritable  ancient  coins,  and  dug-up  cameos, 
—  all  manufactured  for  the  demand.  O;ie  wanted  to 
hold  the  horse,  or  to  lead  it,  to  carry  a  shawl,  or  to  show 
the  way.  In  the  midst  of  infinite  clamor  and  noise,  we 
at  last  got  mounted,  and,  turning  into  a  narrow  lane 
between  high  walls,  began  the  ascent,  our  cavalcade 
attended  by  a  procession  of  rags  and  wretchedness  up 
through  the  village.  Some  of  them  fell  off  as  we  rose 
among  the  vineyards,  and  they  found  us  proof  against 
begging;  but  several  accompanied  us  all  day,  hoping 
that,  in  some  unguarded  moment,  they  could  do  us  some 
slight  service,  and  so  establish  a  claim  on  us.  Among 
these  I  noticed  some  stout  fellows  with  short  ropes,  with 
which  they  intended  to  assist  us  up  the  steeps.  If  I  looked 
away  an  instant,  some  urchin  would  seize  my  horse's  bri- 
dle ;  and  when  I  carelessly  let  my  stick  fall  on  his  hand, 
in  token  for  him  to  let  go,  he  would  fall  back  with  an 
injured  look,  and  grasp  the  tail,  from  which  I  could  only 
loosen  him  by  swinging  my  staff  and  preparing  to  break 
his  head. 

The  ascent  is  easy  at  first  between  walls  and  the  vine- 
yards which  produce  the  celebrated  Lachryma  Christi. 


204  CLIMBING  A   VOLCANO. 

After  a  half-hour  we  reached  and  began  to  cross  the 
lava  of  1858,  and  the  wild  desolation  and  gloom  of  the 
mountain  began  to  strike  us.  One  is  here  conscious  of 
the  Titanic  forces  at  work.  Sometimes  it  is  as  if  a  giant 
had  ploughed  the  ground,  and  left  the  furrows  without  har- 
rowing them  to  harden  into  black  and  brown  stone.  We 
could  see  again  how  the  broad  stream,  flowing  down, 
squeezed  and  squashed  like  mud,  had  taken  all  fantastic 
shapes,  —  now  like  gnarled  tree-roots ;  now  like  serpents 
in  a  coil ;  here  the  human  form,  or  a  part  of  it,  —  a  torso  or 
a  limb,  —  in  agony ;  now  in  other  nameless  convolutions 
and  contortions,  as  if  heaved  up  and  twisted  in  fiery  pain 
and  suffering,  —  for  there  was  almost  a  human  fee] ing  in 
it;  and  again  not  unlike  stone  billows.  We  could  see 
how  the  cooling  crust  had  been  lifted  and  split  and 
turned  over  by  the  hot  stream  underneath,  which,  con- 
tinually oozing  from  the  rent  of  the  eruption,  bore  it 
down  and  pressed  it  upward.  Even  so  low  as  the  point 
where  we  crossed  the  lava  of  1858  were  fissures  whence 
came  hot  air. 

An  hour  brought  us  to  the  resting-place  called  the 
Hermitage,  an  osteria  and  observatory  established  by 
the  Government.  Standing  upon  the  end  of  a  spur,  it 
seems  to  be  safe  from  the  lava,  whose  course  has  always 
been  on  either  side ;  but  it  must  be  an  uncomfortable 
place  in  a  shower  of  stones  and  ashes.  We  rode  half 
an  hour  longer  on  horseback,  on  a  nearly  level  path,  to 
the  foot  of  the  steep  ascent,  the  base  of  the  great  crater. 
This  ride  gave  us  completely  the  wide  and  ghastly  deso- 
lation of  the  mountain,  the  ruin  that  the  lava  has 
wrought  upon  slopes  that  were  once  green  with  vine 
and  olive,  and  busy  with  the  hum  of  life.  This  black, 
contorted  desert  waste  is  more  sterile  and  hopeless  than 
any  mountain  of  stone,  because  the  idea  of  relentless 
destruction  is  involved  here.  This  great,  hummocked, 
eloping  plain,  ridged  and  seamed,  was  all  about  us,  with- 
out cheer  or  relaxation  of  grim  solitude.  Before  us  rose, 
as  bla;k  and  bare,  what  the  guides  call  the  mountain, 


CLIMBING  A   VOLCANO.  205 

and  which  used  to  be  the  orator.  Up  one  side  is  worked 
in  the  lava  a  zigzag  path,  steep,  but  not  very  fatiguing, 
if  you  take  it  slowly.  Two-thirds  of  the  way  up,  I  saw 
Bpeoks  of  people  climbing.  Beyond  it  rose  the  cone  of 
ashes,  out  of  which  the  threat  cloud  of  sulphurous  smoke 
rises  and  rolls  night  and  day  now.  On  the  very  edge  of 
that,  on  the  lip  of  it,  where  the  smoke  rose,  I  also  saw 
human  shapes ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  stood  on  the 
brink  of  Tartarus  and  in  momently,  imminent  peril. 

We  left  our  horses  in  a  wild  spot,  where  scorched 
bowlders  had  fallen  upon  the  lava  bed;  and  guides  and 
boys  gathered  about  us  like  cormorants:  but,  declining 
their  offers  to  pull  us  up,  we  began  the  ascent,  which 
took  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  We  were  then  on 
the  summit,  which  is,  after  all,  not  a  summit  at  all,  but  an 
uneven  waste,  sloping  away  from  the  Cone  in  the  centre. 
This  sloping  lava  waste  was  full  of  little  cracks,  —  not  fis- 
sures with  hot  lava  in  them,  or  any  thing  of  the  sort,  —  out 
of  which  white  steam  issued,  not  unlike  the  smoke  from 
a  great  patch  of  burned  timber ;  and  the  wind  blew  it 
along  the  ground  towards  us.  It  was  cool,  for  the  sun 
was  hidden  by  light  clouds,  but  not  cold.  The  ground 
under  foot  was  slightly  warm.  I  had  expected  to  feel 
some  dread,  or  shrinking,  or  at  least  some  sense  of  inse- 
curity, but  I  did  not  the  slightest,  then  or  afterwards ; 
and  I  think  mine  is  the  usual  experience.  I  had  no 
more  sense  of  danger  on  the  edge  of  the  crater  than  I 
had  in  the  streets  of  Naples. 

We  next  addressed  ourselves  to  the  Cone,  which  is  a 
loose  hill  of  ashes  and  sand,  —  a  natural  slope,  I  should 
say,  of  about  one  and  a  half  to  one,  offering  no  foothold. 
The  climb  is  very  fatiguing,  because  you  sink  in  to  the 
ankles,  and  slide  back  at  every  step ;  but  it  is  short,  —  we 
were  up  in  six  to  eight  minutes,  —  though  the  ladies,  who 
had  been  helped  a*  little  by  the  guides,  were  nearly 
exhausted,  and  sank  down  on  the  very  edge  of  the  cra- 
ter, with  their  backs  to  the  smoke.  What  did  we  see? 
What  would  you  see  if  you  looked  into  a  steam  boiler  ? 
18 


206  CLIMBING  A   VOLCANO. 

We  stood  on  the  ashy  edo;e  of  the  crater,  the  sharp  edge 
sloping  one  way  down  the  mountain,  and  the  other  into 
the  bowels,  whence  the  thick,  stifling  smoke  rose.  We 
rolled  stones  down,  and  heard  them  rumbling  for  half  a 
minute.  The  diameter  of  the  crater  on  the  brink  of 
which  we  stood  was  said  to  be  an  eighth  of  a  mile ;  but 
the  whole  was  completely  filled  with  vapor.  The  edo;e 
where  we  stood  was  quite  warm.  We  ate  some  rolls  we 
had  brought  in  our  pockets,  and  some  of  the  party  tried 
a.  bottle  of  the  wine  that  one  of  the  cormorants  had 
brought  up,  but  found  it  any  thing  but  the  Lachryma 
Christ!  it  was  named.  We  looked  with  longing  eyes 
down  into  the  vapor-boiling  caldron  ;  we  looked  at  the 
wide  and  lovely  view  of  land  and  sea ;  we  tried  to  realize 
our  awful  situation,  munched  our  dry  bread,  and  laughed 
at  the  monstrous  demands  of  the  vagabonds  about  us  for 
money,  and  then  turned  and  went  down  quicker  than  we 
came  up. 

We  had  chosen  to  ascend  to  the  old  crater  rather  than 
to  the  new  one  of  the  recent  eruption  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain,  where  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen.  When  we 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  Cone,  our  guide  led  us  to  the 
north  side,  and  into  a  region  that  did  begin  to  look  like 
business.  The  wind  drove  all  the  smoke  round  there, 
and  we  were  half  stifled  with  sulphur  fumes  to  begin 
with.  Then  the  whole  ground  was  discolored  red  and 
yellow,  and  with  many  more  gay  and  sulphur-suggesting 
colors.  And  it  actually  had  deep  fissures  in  it,  over 
which  we  stepped  and  among  which  we  went,  out  of 
which  came  blasts  of  hot,  horrid  vapor,  with  a  roaring  as 
if  we  were  in  the  midst  of  furnaces.  And  if  we  came 
near  the  cracks  the  heat  was  powerful  in  our  faces,  and 
if  we  thrust  our  sticks  down  them  they  were  instantly 
burned ;  and  the  guides  cooked  eggs ;  and  the  crust  was 
thin,  and  very  hot  to  our  boots ;  and  half  the  time  we 
couldn't  see  any  thing ;  and  we  would  rush  away  where 
the  vapor  was  not  so  thick,  and,  with  handkerchiefs  to  our 
mouths,  rush  in  again  to  get  the  full  effect.  After  wo 


CLIMBING  A   VOLCANO.  207 

rame  out  again  into  better  air,  it  was  as  if  we  had  been 
through  the  burning,  fiery  furnace,  and  had  the  smell 
of  it  on  our  garments.  And,  indeed,  the  sulphur  had 
changed  to  red  certain  of  our  clothes,  and  noticeably  my 
pantaloons  and  the  black  velvet  cap  of  one  of  the  ladies; 
and  it  was  some  days  before  they  recovered  their  color. 
But,  as  I  say,  there  was  no  sense  of  danger  in  the  adven- 
ture. 

We  descended  by  a  different  route,  on  the  south  side 
of  the  mountain,  to  our  horses,  and  made  a  lark  of  it. 
We  went  down  an  ash  slope,  very  steep,  where  we  sank 
in  a  loot  or  little  less  at  every  step,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do  for  it,  but  to  run  and  jump.  We  took  steps  as 
IOMJ;  as  if  we  had  worn  seven-league  boots.  When  the 
whole  party  got  in  motion,  the  entire  slope  seemed  to 
,*lide  a  little  with  us,  and  there  appeared  some  danger  of 
an  avalanche.  But  we  didn't  stop  for  it.  It  was  exactly 
like  plunging  down  a  steep  hillside  that  is  covered 
thickly  with  light,  soft  snow.  There  was  a  gray-haired 
gentleman  with  us,  with  a  good  deal  of  the  boy  in  him, 
who  thought  it  great  fun. 

I  have  said  little  about  the  view ;  but  I  might  have 
written  about  nothing  else,  both  in  the  ascent  and  de- 
scent. Naples,  and  all  the  villages  which  rim  the  bay 
with  white,  the  gracefully-curving  arms  that  go  out  to 
sea,  and  do  not  quite  clasp  rocky  Capri,  which  lies  at 
the  entrance,  made  the  outline  of  a  picture  of  sur- 
passing loveliness.  But,  as  we  came  down,  there  was 
a  sight  that  I  am  sure  was  unique.  As  one  in  a  balloon 
sees  the  earth  concave  beneath,  so,  now,  from  where  we 
stood,  it  seemed  to  rise,  not  fall,  to  the  sea,  and  all  the 
white  villages  were  raised  to  the  clouds ;  and,  by  the 
peculiar  Light,  the  sea  looked  exactly  like  sky,  and  the 
little  boats  on  it  seemed  to  float,  like  balloons  in  the  air 
The  illusion  was  perfect.  As  the  day  waned,  a  heavy 
cloud  hid  the  sun,  and  so  let  down  the  light  that  the 
waters  were  a  dark  purple.  Then  the  sun  went  behind 
Posilipo  in  a  perfect  blaze  of  scarlet,  and  all  the  sea  was 


208  CLIMBING  A   VOLCANO. 

violet.  Only  it  still  was  not  the  sea  at  all ;  but  the 
little  chopping  waves  looked  like  flecked  clouds ;  and  it 
was  exactly  as  if  one  of  the  violet,  cloud-beautified  skies 
that  we  see  at  home  over  some  sunsets  had  fallen  to  the 
ground.  And  the  slant  white  sails  and  the  black  specks 
of  boats  on  it  hung  in  the  sky,  and  were  as  unsubstantial 
as  the  whole  pageant.  Capri  alone  was  dark  and  solid. 
And  as  we  descended  and  a  high  wall  hid  it,  a  little 
handsome  rascal,  who  had  attended  me  for  an  hour,  now 
at  the  head  and  now  at  the  tail  of  my  pony,  recalled  me 
to  the  realities  by  the  request  that  I  should  give  him  a 
franc.  For  what  ?  For  carrying  signer's  coat  up  the 
mountain.  I  rewarded  the  little  liar  with  a  German 
copper.  I  had  carried  my  own  overcoat  all  day. 


SORRENTO  DAYS. 


OUTLINES. 


E  day  came  when  we  tired  of  the  brilliancy  and  din 
I  of  Naples,  most  noisy  of  cities.  Neapolis,  or  Par- 
thenope,  as  is  well  known,  was  founded  by  Parthenope,  a 
siren  who  was  cast  ashore  there.  Her  descendants  still 
live  here;  and  we  have  become  a  little  weary  of  tlu-ir 
inherited  musical  ability  :  they  have  learned  to  play  upon 
many  new  instruments,  with  which  they  keep  us  awake 
late  at  night,  and  arouse  us  early  in  the  morning.  One 
of  them  is  always  there  under  the  window,  where  the 
moonlight  will  strike  him,  or  the  early  dawn  will  light 
up  his  love-worn  visage,  strumming  the  guitar  with  his 
horny  thumb,  and  wailing  through  his  nose  as  if  his 
throat  was  full  of  sea-weed.  He  is  as  inexhaustible  as 
Vesuvius.  We  shall  have  to  flee,  or  stop  our  ears  with 
wax,  like  the  sailors  of  Ulysses. 

The  day  came  when  we  had  checked  off  the  Posilipo, 
and  the  Grotto,  Pozzuoli,  Baia;,  Cape  Misenum,  the 
Museum,  Vesuvius,  Pompeii,  llerculaneum,  the  moderns 
buried  at  the  Campo  Santo;  and  we  said,  Let  us  go  and 
lie  in  the  sun  at  Sorrento.  But  first  let  us  settle  our 
geography. 

The  Bay  of  Naples,  painted  and  sung  forever,  but 
never  adequately,  must  consent  to  be  here  described  as 
essentially  a  parallelogram,  with  an  opening;  towards  the 
south-west.  The  north-east  side  of  this,  with  Naples  in 
the  right-hand  corner,  looking  seaward,  and  Castellamare 
in  the  left-hand  corner,  at  a  distance  of  some  fourteen 
uiilcs,  is  a,  vast  rich  plain,  fringed  on  the  thore  with 

211 


212  OUTLINES. 

towns,  and  covered  with  white  houses  and  gardens.  Out 
of  this  rises  the  isolated  bulk  of  Vesuvius.  This  grow- 
ing mountain  is  manufactured  exactly  like  an  ant-hill. 

The  north-west  side  of  the  bay,  keeping  a  general 
westerly  direction,  is  very  uneven,  with  headlands,  deep 
bays,  and  outlying  islands.  First  comes  the  promontory 
of  Posilipo,  pierced  by  two  tunnels,  partly  natural  and 
partly  Greek  and  Roman  work,  above  the  entrance  of 
one  of  which  is  the  tomb  of  Virgil,  let  us  believe  ;  then 
a  beautiful  bay,  the  shore  of  which  is  incrusted  with 
classic  ruins.  On  this  bay  stands  Pozzuoli,  the  ancient 
Puteoli  where  St.  Paul  landed  one  May  day,  and  doubt- 
less walked  up  this  paved  road,  which  leads  direct  to 
Rome.  At  the  entrance,  near  the  head  of  Posilipo,  is 
the  volcanic  island  of  "  shining  Nisida,"  to  which  Brntus 
retired  after  the  assassination  of  Caesar,  and  where  he 
bade  Portia  good-by  before  he  departed  for  Greece  and 
Philippi :  the  favorite  villa  of  Cicero,  where  he  wrote 
many  of  his  letters  to  Atticus,  looked  on  it.  Baise, 
epitome  of  the  luxury  and  profligacy,  of  the  splendor  and 
crime,  of  the  most  sensual  years  of  the  Roman  empire, 
spread  there  its  temples,  palaces,  and  pleasure-gardens, 
which  crowded  the  low  slopes,  and  extended  over  the 
water ;  and  yonder  is  Cape  Misenum,  which  sheltered 
the  great  fleets  of  Rome. 

This  region,  which  is  still  shaky  from  fires  bubbling 
under  the  thin  crust,  through  which  here  and  there  the 
sulphurous  vapor  breaks  out,  is  one  of  the  most  sacred 
in  the  ancient  world.  Here  are  the  Lucrine  Lake,  the 
Elysian  Fields,  the  cave  of  the  Cumean  Sibyl,  and  the 
Lake  Avernus.  This  entrance  to  the  infernal  regions 
was  frozen  over  the  day  I  saw  it ;  so  that  the  profane 
prophecy  of  skating  on  the  bottomless  pit  might  have 
been  realized.  The  Islands  of  Procida  and  Ischia  con- 
tinue and  complete  this  side  of  the  bay,  which  is  about 
twenty  miles  long  as  the  boat  sails. 

At  Castellamare  the  shore  makes  a  sharp  bend,  and 
runs  south-west  along  the  side  of  the  Sorrentine  Prom- 


OUTLINES.  21  j 

ontory.  This  promontory  is  a  high,  rocky,  diversified 
rid'_i;e,  Vfhieh  extends  out  between  tin-  li.-iys  of  Naples  and 
Salerno,  wi'h  its  short  and  precipitous  slope  towards  tin; 
latter.  Ik-low  Castellamare,  the  mountain  rair^e  of  the 
(iivat  St.  Anirelo  (an  oflfslioot  of  the  Apennines)  runs 
aeross  the  peninsula,  and  cuts  olF  that  portion  of  it  which" 
we  have  to  consider.  The  most  conspicuous  of  the 
three  parts  of  this  short  range  is  over  four  thousand 
seven  hundred  feet  above  J:he  Bay  of  Naples,  and  the 
highest  hind  on  it.  From  Great  St.  Angelo  to  the  point, 
the  Punta  di  Campanella,  it  is,  perhaps,  twelve  miles  by 
balloon,  but  twenty  by  any  other  conveyance.  Three 
miles  otFthis  point  lies  Capri. 

This  promontory  has  a  backbone  of  rocky  ledges  and 
hills ;  but  it  has,  at  intervals,  transverse  ledges  and 
ridges,  and  deep  valleys  and  chains  cutting  in  from  either 
side;  so  that  it  is  not  very  passable  in  any  direction. 
These  little  valleys  and  bays  are  warm  nooks  for  the  olive 
and  the  orange  ;  and  all  the  precipices  and  sunny  slopes 
are  terraced  nearly  to  the  top.  This  promontory  of 
rocks  is  far  from  being  barren. 

From  Castellauiare,  driving  along  a  winding,  rock-cut 
road  by  the  bay,  —  one  of  the  most  charming  in  South- 
ern Italy,  —  a  distance  of  seven  miles,  we  reach  the 
Punta  di  Scutolo.  This  point,  and  the  opposite  head- 
land, the  Capo  di  Sorrento,  enclose  the  Piano  di  Sorrento, 
an  irregular  plain,  three  miles  long,  encircled  by  lime- 
stone hills,  which  protect  it  from  the  east  and  south 
winds.  In  this  amphitheatre  it  lies,  a  mass  of  green 
foliaire  and  white  villages,  fronting  Naples  and  Vesuvius. 

If  Nature  first  scooped  out  this  nook  level  with  the  sea, 
and  then  filled  it  up  to  a  depth  of  two  hundred  to  three 
hundred  feet  with  volcanic  tufa,  forming  a  precipice  of 
that  height  along  the  shore,  I  can  understand  how  the 
present  state  of  things  came  about. 

This  plain  is  not  all  level,  however.  Decided  spurs 
push  down  into  it  from  the  hills  ;  and  great  chasms,  deep, 
ragged,  impassable,  split  in  the  tufa,  extend  up  into  it 


214  OUTLINES. 

from  the  sea.  At  intervals,  at  the  openings  of  these 
ravines,  are  little  marinas,  where  the  fishermen  have  their 
huts,  and  where  their  boats  land.  Little  villages,  sepa- 
rate from  the  world,  abound  on  these  marinas.  The 
warm  volcanic  soil  of  the  sheltered  plain  makes  it  a  para- 
dise of  fruits  and  flowers. 

Sorrento,  ancient  and  romantic  city,  lies  at  the  south- 
west end  of  this  plain,  built  along  the  sheer  sea  preci- 
pice, and  running  back  to  the  hills,  —  a  city  of  such 
narrow  streets,  high  walls,  and  luxuriant  groves,  that  it 
can  only  be  seen  from  the  heights  adjacent.  The  ancient 
boundary  of  the  city  proper  was  the  famous  ravine  on 
the  east  side,  a  similar  ravine  on  the  south,  which  met  it 
at  right  angles,  and  was  supplemented  by  a  high  Roman 
wall,  and  the  same  wall  continued  on  the  west  to  the 
sea.  The  growing  town  has  pushed  away  the  wall  on 
the  west  side  ;  but  that  on  the  south  yet  stands  as  good 
as  when  the  Romans  made  it.  There  is  a  little  attempt 
at  a  mall,  with  double  rows  of  trees,  under  that  wall, 
where  lovers  walk,  and  ragged,  handsome  urchins  play 
the  exciting  game  of  fives,  or  sit  in  the  dirt,  gambling 
with  cards  for  the  Sorrento  currency.  I  do  not  know 
what  sin  it  may  be  to  gamble  for  a  bit  of  printed  paper 
which  has  the  value  of  one  sou. 

The  great  ravine,  three-quarters  of  a  mile  long,  the 
ancient  boundary  which  now  cuts  the  town  in  two,  is 
bridged  where  the  main  street,  the  Corso,  crosses,  the 
bridge  resting  on  old  Roman  substructions,  as  every  thing 
else  about  here  does.  This  ravine,  always  invested  with 
mystery,  is  the  theme  of  no  end  of  poetry  and  legend. 
Demons  inhabit  it.  Here  and  there,  in  its  perpendicu- 
lar sides,  steps  have  been  cut  for  descent.  Vines  and 
lichens  grow  on  the  walls :  in  one  place,  at  tho  bottom, 
an  orange-grove  has  taken  root.  There  is  even  a  mill 
down  there,  where  there  is  breadth  enough  for  a  build- 
ing; arid,  altogether,  the  ravine  is  not  so  delivered  over 
to  the  power  of  darkness  as  it  used  to  be.  It  is  still 
damp  aud  slimy,  it  is  true;  but,  from  above,  it  Is  always 


OUTLINES.  215 

beautiful,  with  its  luxuriant  growth  of  vines,  ami  at 
twilight  m\  sterioiis.  I  like  as  well,  however,  to  im»k  into 
its  entrance  from  the  little  muriua,  where  the  old  lish- 
wives  nni  we:i\  in-jj  nets. 

These  liitle  settlements  under  the  dill',  called  marinas, 
are  worlds  in  themselves  pict  mvsque  at  a  distance,  l>ut 
squalid  seen  close  at  hand.  They  are  not  very  different, 
from  the  little  fishing-stations  on  the  Isle,  of  \Vi-hl; 
hut  they  are  more  sheltered,  and  their  inhabitants  sin^ 
at  their  work,  wear  bright  colors,  and  bask  in  the  sun  a 
i^ood  deal,  feeling  no  sense;  of  responsibility  for  the 
world  they  did  not  create.  To  weave  nets,  to  fish  in  the 
hav,  to  sell  their  fish  at  the  wharves,  to  eat  unexciting 
vegetables  and  fish,  to  drink  moderately,  to  go  to  the 
chapel  of  St.  Antonino  on  Sunday,  not  to  work  on  fast 
and  feast  days,  nor  more  than  compelled  to  any  day, — 
this  is  life  at  the  marinas.  Their  world  is  what  they 
can  see,  and  Naples  is  distant  and  almost  foreign.  Gen- 
eration after  generation  is  content  with  the  same  simple 
life.  They  have  no  more  idea  of  the  bad  way  the  world 
is  in  than  bees  in  their  cells. 


THE  VILLA   NARDI. 

THE  Villa  Nardi  hangs  over  the  sea.  It  is  built  on 
a  rock,  and  I  know  not  what  Roman  and  Greek 
foundations,  and  the  remains  of  yet  earlier  peoples, 
traders,  and  traffickers,  whose  galleys  used  to  roek  there 
at  the  base  of  the  cliff,  where  the  gentle  waves  beat  even 
in  this  winter-time  with  a  summer  swing  and  sound  of 
peace. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  a  day  in  January  that  I  first 
knew  the  Villa  Nardi,  —  a  warm,  lovely  day,  at  the  hour 
when  the  sun  was  just  going  behind  the  Capo  di  Sor- 
rento, in  order  to  disrobe  a  little,  I  fancy,  before  plun- 
ging into  the  Mediterranean  off  the  end  of  Capri,  as  is 
his  wont  about  this  time  of  year.  When  we  turned  out 
of  the  little  piazza,  our  driver  Avas  obliged  to  take  off 
one  of  our  team  of  three  horses  driven  abreast,  so  that 
we  could  pass  through  the  narrow  and  crooked  streets, 
or  rather  lanes  of  blank  walls.  With  cracking  whip, 
rattling  wheels,  and  shouting  to  clear  the  way,  we  drove 
into  the  Strada  di  San  Francisca,  and  to  an  arched  gate- 
way. This  led  down  a  straight  path,  between  olives  and 
orange  and  lemon  trees,  gleaming  with  shining  leaves 
and  fruit  of  gold,  with  hedges  of  rose-trees  in  full  bloom, 
to  another  leafy  arch;  through  which  I  saw  tropical 
trc^s,  and  a  terrace  with  a  low  wall  and  battered  busts 
guarding  it,  and,  beyond,  the  blue  sea,  a  white  sail  or 
two  slanting  across  the  opening,  and  the  whiteness  of 
Naples  some  twenty  miles  away  on  the  shore. 

The  noble  family  of  the  Villa  did  not  descend  into 
216 


THE  VILLA  NARDl.  217 

flic  '.rarden  to  welcome  IH.  as  we.  should  have,  liked  ;  in 
laet,  they  have  been  absent  now  for  a.  loirj;  time,  so  long 
that  even  their  ghosts,  it'  they  ever  pace  the  terraee-walk 
towards  (lie  convent,  would  appear  strange  Jo  one  who 
should  meet  them;  and  yet  our  hostess,  the  Tramontane, 
did  what  the  ancient  occupants  scarcely  could  have  done, 
gave  us  the  choice  of  rooms  in  the  entire  hoii-e.  The 
stranger  who  finds  himself  in  this  secluded  paradise,  at 
this  season,  is  always  at  a  loss  whether  to  take  a  room 
on  the  sea,  with  all  its  changeable  loveliness,  but  no  sun, 
or  one  overlooking  the  garden,  where  the  sun  all  day 
pours  itself  into  the  orange  houghs,  and  where  the  birds 
are  just  beginning  to  get  up  a  spring  twitteration.  My 
friend,  whose  capacity  for  taking  in  the  luxurious  repose 
of  this  region  is  something  extraordinary,  has  tried,  I 
believe,  nearly  every  room  in  the  house,  and  has  at  length 
gone  up  to  a  solitary  room  on  the  top,  where,  like  a  bird 
on  a  tree,  he  looks  all  ways,  and,  so  to  say,  swings  in  the 
entrancing  air.  But,  wherever  you  are,  you  will  grow 
hi  to  content  with  your  situation. 

At  the  Villa  Nardi,  we  have  no  sound  of  wheels,  no 
noise  of  work  or  traffic,  no  suggestion  of  conflict.  I  am 
under  the  impression  that  every  thing  that  was  to  have 
been  done  has  been  done.  I  am,  it  is  true,  a  little  afraid 
that  the  Saracens  will  come  here  again,  and  carry  off 
more  of  the  nut-brown  girls,  who  lean  over  the  walls,  and 
look  down  on  ns  from  under  the  boughs.  I  am  not  quite 
sure  that  a  French  Admiral  of  the  Republic  will  not 
some  morning  anchor  his  three-decker  in  front,  and  open 
fire  en  us;  but  nothing  else  can  happen.  Naples  is  a 
thousand  miles  away.  The  boom  of  the  saluting  guns 
of  Castel  Nuovo  is  to  us  scarcely  an  echo  of  modern  life. 
Home  does  not  exist.  And,  as  for  London  and  New 
York,  they  send  their  people  and  their  newspapers  here, 
hut  no  pulse  of  unrest  from  them  disturbs  our  tranquil- 
lity. Hemmed  in  on  the,  land  side  by  hi-  h  walls,  groves, 
and  gardens,  perched  upon  a  rock  two  hundred  feet  above 
the  water,  how  much  more  secure  from  invasion  is  this 


a:8  THE  VILLA  NARDL 

than  any  fabled  island  of  the  southern  sea.  or  any  remote 
stream  where  the  boats  of  the  lotus-eaters  float ! 

There  is  a  little  terrace  and  flower-plat,  where  we 
sometimes  sit,  and  over  the  wall  of  which  we  like  to  lean, 
and  look  down  the  cliff*  to  the  sea.  This  terrace  is  the 
common  ground  of  many  exotics  as  well  as  native  trees 
and  shrubs.  Here  are  the  magnolia,  the  laurel,  the  Jap- 
anese medlar,  the  oleander,  the  pepper,  the  bay,  the 
date-palm,  a  tree  called  the  plumbago,  another  from  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope,  the  pomegranate,  the  elder  in  full 
leaf,  the  olive,  sal  via,  heliotrope ;  close  by  is  a  banana- 
tree. 

I  find  a  good  deal  of  companionship  in  the  rows  of 
plaster  busts  that  stand  on  the  wall,  in  all  attitudes  of 
listlessness,  and  all  stages  of  decay.  I  thought  at  first 
they  were  Penates  of  the  premises  ;  but  better  acquaint- 
ance has  convinced  me  that  they  never  were  gods,  but 
the  clayey  representations  of  great  men  and  noble  dames. 
The  stains  of  time  are  on  them;  some  have  lost  a  nose 
or  an  ear ;  and  one  has  parted  with  a  still  more  important 
member,  his  head,  —  an  accident  that  might  profitably 
have  befallen  his  neighbor,  whose  curly  locks  and  vil- 
lanously  low  forehead  proclaim  him  a  Roman  emperor. 
Cut  in  the  face  of  the  rock  is  a  walled  and  winding  way 
down  to  the  water.  I  see  below  the  archway  where  it 
issues  from  the  underground  recesses  of  our  establish- 
ment ;  and  there  stands  a  bust,  in  serious  expectation  that 
some  one  will  walk  out  and  saunter  down  among  the 
rocks ;  but  no  one  ever  does.  Just  at  the  right  is  a  little 
beach,  with  a  few  old  houses,  and  a  mimic  stir  of  life,  a 
little  curve  in  the  cliff,  the  mouth  of  the  gorge,  where 
the  waves  come  in  with  a  lazy  swash.  Some  fishing- 
boats  ride  there ;  and  the  shallow  water,  as  I  look  down 
this  sunny  morning,  is  thickly  strewn  with  floating  peels 
of  oranges  and  lemons,  as  if  some  one  was  brewing  a 
gigantic  bowl  of  punch.  And  there  is  an  uncommon  stir 
of  life  ;  for  a  schooner  is  shipping  a  carjro  of  oranges,  and 
the  entire  population  is  in  a  clamor.  Donkeys  are  com- 


THE  VILLA  NARDL  219 

ing  down  the  winding  way,  with  a  heavy  basket,  nn  either 
ilank:  stout  u^irls  arc  stepping  lightly  down  with  load* 
on  their  heads;  the  drivers  shout,  the  donkeys  bray,  tlio 
people  jabber  and  order  each  other  about.;  and  the 
oranges,  in  a  continual  stream,  an;  poured  into  the  long, 
narrow  vessel,  rolling  in  with  a  thud,  until  there  is  a  yel- 
low mass  of  them.  Shouting,  scolding,  singin-jr,  and  bray- 
in-j;,  all  come  up  to  me  a  little  mellowed.  The  disorder 
is  not  so  great  as  on  the  opera  stage  of  San  Carlo  in 
Naples;  and  the  effect  is  much  more  plea-ing. 

This  settlement,  the  marina,  under  tlie  cliff,  used  to 
extend  along  the.  shore;  and  a  good  road  ran  down 
there  close  by  the  water.  The  rock  has  split,  off,  and 
covered  it;  and  perhaps  the  shore  has  sunk.  They  tell 
me  that,  those  who  dig  down  in  the  edge  of  the  shallow 
water  find  sunken  walls,  and  the  remains  of  old  founda- 
tions of  Roman  workmanship.  People  who  wander  there 
pick  up  bits  of  marble,  serpentine,  and  malachite, — 
remains  of  the  palaces  that  long  ago  fell  into  the  sea,  and 
have  not  left  even  the  names  of  their  owners  and  build- 
ers,—  the  ancient  loafers  who  idled  away  their  days  as 
everybody  must  in  this  seductive  spot.  Not  far  from 
here,  they  point  out  the  veritable  caves  of  the  Sirens, 
who  have  now  shut  up  house,  and  gone  away,  like  the 
rest  of  the  nobility.  If  I  had  been  a  mariner  in  their  day, 
I  should  have  made  no  effort  to  sail  by  and  away  from 
their  soothing  shore. 

I  went,  one  day,  through  a  long,  sloping  arch,  near 
the  sailors'  Chapel  of  St.  Antonino,  past  a  pretty  shrine 
of  the  \irgin,  down  the  zigzag  path  to  this  little 
marina;  but  it  is  better  to  be  content  with  looking  at 
it  from  above,  and  imagining  how  delightful  it  would  be 
to  push  off  in  one  of  the  little  tabs  of  boats.  Sometimes, 
at  night,  I  hear  the.  fishermen  coming  b"?ne,  singing  in 
their  lusty  fashion;  and  I  think  it  is  a  good  haven  to 
arrive  at.  I  never  go  down  to  search  for  stones  on  the 
beach:  I  like  to  believe  that  there  are  great  treasures 
there,  which  1  mi^ht  find;  and  I  know  that  the  green 


220  THE  VILLA  NARDL 

and  brown  and  spotty  appearance  of  the  water  is  caused 
by  the  showing  tbiou^h  of  the  pavements  of  courts,  and 
marble  floors  of  palaces,  which  might  vanish  if  I  went 
nearer,  such  a  place  of  illusion  is  this. 

The  Villa  ivardi  stands  in  pleasant  relations  to  Vesu- 
vius, which  is  just  across  the  bay,  and  is  not  so  useless 
as  it  has  been  represented;  it  is  our  weather-si^n  and 
prophet.  When  the  white  plume  on  his  top  floats  inland, 
that  is  one  sort  of  weather ;  when  it  streams  out  to  sea, 
that  is  another.  But  I  can  never  tell  which  is  which : 
nor  in  rny  experience  does  it  much  matter;  for  it  seems 
impossible  for  Sorrento  to  do  any  thing  but  woo  us  with 
gentle  weather.  But  the  use  of  Vesuvius,  after  all,  is  to 
furnish  us  a  background  for  the  violet  light  at  sundown, 
when  the  villages  at  its  foot  gleam  like  a  silver  fringe. 
I  have  become  convinced  of  one  tiling :  it  is  always  best 
when  you  build  a  house  to  have  it  front  toward  a  vol- 
cano, if  you  can.  There  is  just  that  lazy  activity  about 
a  volcano,  ordinarily,  that  satisfies  your  demand  for 
something  that  is  not  exactly  dead,  and  yet  does  not 
disturb  you. 

Sometimes  when  I  wake  in  the  night,  —  though  I 
don't  know  why  one  ever  wakes  in  the  night,  or  the 
daytime  either  here,  —  I  hear  the  bell  of  the  convent, 
which  is  in  our  demesne,  - —  a  convent  which  is  sup- 
pressed, and  where  I  hear,  when  I  pass  in  the  morning, 
the  humming  of  a  school.  At  first,  I  tried  to  count  the 
hour;  but,  when  the  bell  went  on  to  strike  seventeen, 
and  even  twenty-one  o'clock,  the  absurdity  of  the  thing 
came  over  me,  and  I  wondered  whether  it  was  some 
frequent  call  to  prayer  for  a  feeble  band  of  sisters  re- 
maining, some  reminder  of  midnight  penance  and  vigil, 
or  whether  it  was  not  something  more  ghostly  than  that, 
and  was  not  responded  to  by  shades  of  nuns,  who  were 
wont  to  look  out  from  their  narrow  latticed  windows 
upon  these  same  gardens,  as  long  ago  as  when  the  beau- 
tiful Queen  Joanna  used  to  come  down  here  to  repent 
• —  if  she  ever  did  repent  —  of  her  wanton  ways  in  Naples. 


THE   VILLA  NAKDL  221 

On  one  side  of  tin1  garden  is  :i  suppressed  monastery. 
Tin*  narrow  trout  towards  the  sea  lias  a  secluded  little, 
balcony,  where  I  like  to  fancy  the  poor,  orphaned  soul* 
used  to  steal  out  at  night  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  and 
perhaps  to  see,  as  I  did  one  dark  evening,  Naples  with 
iis  lignta  like  a  conflagration  on  the  lion/on.  Upon  the 
tiles  of  the  parapet  are  cheerful  devices,  —  the.  crossbones 
tied  with  a  cord,  and  the  like.  How  many  heavy- 
hearted  recluses  have  stood  in  that  secluded  nook,  and 
been  tempted  by  the  sweet,  lulling  sound  of  the  waves 
In-low:  how  manv  have  pared  along  this  narrow  terrace, 
and  felt  like  prisoners  who  wore  paths  in  the.  stone  lloor 
where  they  tread;  and  how  many  stupid  louts  have; 
walked  then1,  insensible  to  all  the  charm  of  it! 

It  1  pass  into  the  Tramontano  garden,  it  is  not  to 
escape,  the  presence  of  history,  or  to  get  into  the  modern 
world,  where  travellers  are  arriving,  and  where'  there  is 
the  bustle  and  the  proverbial  discontent  of  those  who 
travel  to  enjoy  themselves.  In  the  pretty  garden,  which 
is  a  constant  surprise  of  odd  nooks  and  sunny  hiding- 
places,  with  ruins,  and  most  luxuriant  ivy,  is  a  little 
cottage  where,  I  am  told  in  confidence,  the  young  king 
of  Bavaria  slept  three  nights  not  very  long  ago.  I  h<>;>e 
he  slept  well.  But  more  important  than  the  sleep,  or 
even  death,  of  a  king,  is  the  birth  of  a  poet,  I  take  it; 
and  within  this  enclosure,  on  the  eleventh  day  of  March, 
lf>  11.  Torquato  Tasso,  most  melancholy  of  men,  first  saw 
the  light ;  and  here  was  born  his  noble  sister  Cornelia, 
the  descendants  of  whose  union  with  the  cavalier  Spa- 
siano  still  live  here,  and  in  a  manner  keep  the  memory 
of  the  poet  green  with  the  present  generation.  I  am 
indebted  to  a  gentleman  who  is  of  this  lineage  for  many 
favors,  and  for  precise  information  as  to  tin.1  position  in 
the  house  that  stood  here  of  the  very  room  in  which 
Tasso  was  born.  It  is  also  minutely  given  in  a  memoir 
of  Tasso  and  his  family,  by  Bartolommeo  Capasso,  wh-  e 
careful  researches  have  disproved  the  slipshod  statements 
of  the  guide-books,  that  the  poet  was  born  in  a  house 


222  THE  VILLA  NARDL 

which  is  still  standing,  farther  to  the  west,  and  that 
the  room  has  fallen  into  the  sea.  The  descendant  of 
the  sister  pointed  out  to  me  the  spot  on  the  terrace  of  the 
Tramontane  where  the  room  itself  was,  when  the  house 
still  stood  ;  and,  of  course,  seeing  is  believing.  The  sun 
shone  full  upon  it,  as  we  stood  there ;  and  the  air  was 
full  of  the  scent  of  tropical  fruit  and  just-coming  blos- 
soms. One  could  not  desire  a  more  tranquil  scene  of 
advent  into  life;  and  the  wandering,  broken-hearted 
author  of  "Jerusalem  Delivered  "  never  found  at  court 
or  palace  any  retreat  so  soothing  as  that  offered  him 
here  by  his  steadfast  sister. 

If  I  were  an  antiquarian,  I  think  I  should  have  had 
Tasso  born  at  the  Villa  Nardi,  where  I  like  best  to  stay, 
and  where  I  find  traces  of  many  pilgrims  from  other 
countries.  Here,  in  a  little  corner-room  on  the  terrace, 
Mrs.  Stowe  dreamed  and  wrote ;  and  I  expect,  every 
morning,  as  I  take  my  morning  sun  here  by  the  gate, 
Agnes  of  Sorrento  will  come  down  the  sweet-scented 
path  with  a  basket  of  oranges  on  her  head. 


SEA   AND   SHORE. 

IT  is  not  always  easy,  when  one  stands  upon  the  liiirh- 
lands  which  encircle  the  Piano  di  Sorrento,  in  pome 
conditions  of  the  atmosphere,  to  tell  where  the.  sea  cuds, 
nnd  the  sky  lie-in-^.  It  M-cms  practicable, at  such  times, 
for  one  to  take  ship,  and  sail  up  into  heaven.  I  have 
often,  indeed,  seen  white  sails  climbing  up  there,  and 
fishing-boats,  at  secure  anchor  I  suppose,  riding  appar- 
ently like  balloons  in  the  hazy  air.  Sea  and  air  and  land 
here  are  all  kin,  I  suspect,  and  have  certain  immaterial 
qualities  in  common.  The  contours  of  the  shores  and 
the  outlines  of  the  hills  are  as  graceful  as  the  mobile 
waves ;  and  if  there  is  anywhere  ruggedness  and  sharp- 
ness, the  atmosphere  throws  a  friendly  veil  over  it,  and 
tones  all  that  is  inharmonious  into  the  repose  of  beauty. 

The  atmosphere  is  really  something  more  than  a 
medium  :  it  is  a  drapery,  woven,  one  could  aflirm,  with 
colors,  or  dipped  in  Oriental  dyes.  One  might  account 
thus  for  the  prismatic  colors  I  have  often  seen  on  the 
horizon  at  noon,  when  the  sun  was  pouring  down  floods 
of  clear,  golden  light.  The  simple  light  here,  if  one 
could  ever  represent  it  by  pen,  pencil,  or  brush,  would 
draw  the  world  hither  to  bathe  in  it.  It  is  not  thin 
sunshine,  but  a  royal  profusion,  a  golden  substance,  a 
transforming  quality,  a  vesture  of  splendor  for  all  these 
Mediterranean  shores. 

The  most  comprehensive  idea  of  Sorrento  and  the  great 
plain  on  which  it  stands,  embedded  almost  out  of  si-Jit 
in  Ibliage,  we  obtained  one  day  from  our  boat,  as  we  put 

223 


224  SEA  AND  SHORE. 

out  round  the  Capo  di  Sorrento,  and  stood  away  for 
Capri.  There  was  not  wind  enough  for  sails ;  but  there 
were  chopping  waves,  and  swell  enough  to  toss  us  about, 
and  to  produce  bright  flashes  of  light  far  out  at  sea.  The 
red-shirted  rowers  silently  bent  to  their  long  sweeps ; 
and  I  lay  in  the  tossing  bow,  and  studied  the  high,  reced- 
ing shore.  The  picture  is  simple,  —  a  precipice  of  rock 
or  earth,  faced  with  masonry  in  spots,  almost  of  uniform 
height  from  point  to  point  of  the  little  bay,  except  where 
a  deep  gorge  has  split  the  rock,  and  comes  to  the  sea, 
forming  a  cove,  where  a  cluster  of  rude  buildings  is  likely 
to  gather.  Along  the  precipice,  which  now  juts  and  now 
recedes  a  little,  are  villas,  hotels,  old  convents,  gardens, 
and  groves.  I  can  see  steps  and  galleries  cut  in  the  face 
of  the  cliff,  and  caves  and  caverns,  natural  and  artificial : 
for  one  can  cut  this  tufa  with  a  knife ;  and  it  would 
hardly  seem  preposterous  to  attempt  to  dig  out  a  cool, 
roomy  mansion  in  this  rocky  front  with  a  spade. 

As  we  pull  away,  I  begin  to  see  the  depth  of  the  plain 
of  Sorrento,  with  its  villages,  walled  roads,  its  groves  of 
oranges,  olives,  lemons,  its  figs,  pomegranates,  almonds, 
mulberries,  and  acacias;  and  soon  the  terraces  above, 
where  the  vineyards  are  planted,  and  the  olives  also. 
These  terraces  must  be  a  brave  sight  in  spring,  when  the 
masses  of  olives  are  white  as  snow  with  blossoms,  which 
fill  all  the  plain  with  their  sweet  perfume.  Above  the 
terraces,  the  eye  reaches  the  fine  outline  of  the  hill ;  and, 
to  the  cast,  the  bare  precipice  of  rock,  softened  by  the 

Eurple  light;  and  turning  still  to  the  left,  as  the  boat 
izily  swings,  I  have  Vesuvius,  the  graceful  dip  into  the 
plain,  and  the  rise  to  the  heights  of  Naples,  Nisida,  the 
shining  houses  of  Pozzuoli,  Cape  Misenum,  Procida,  and 
rough  Ischia.  Rounding  the  headland,  Capri  is  before 
us,  so  sharp  and  clear  that  we  seem  close  to  it ;  but  it  is 
a  weary  pull  before  we  get  under  its  rocky  side. 

Returning  from  Capri  late  in  the  afternoon,  we  had 
one  of  those  effects  which  are  the  despair  of  artists.  J 
had  been  told  that  twilights  are  short  here,  and  that, 


SEA  AND  SHORE.  22$ 

\vh(M  tlio  sun  disappeared,  color  vanished  from  the  sky. 
There  was  a  wonderful  light  on  ;ill  (he  inner  bay,  as 
we  put  oil*  from  shore.  Isehia  was  one  mass  of  violet 
color.  A^  we  got  from  under  the  island,  there  was  the 
sun,  a  red  l>all  of  lire,  just  dipping  into  the  sea.  At  once. 
tin1  whole  horizon  line  of  water  became  a  bright  Crimson, 
which  deepened  ns  the  evening  advanced,  glowing  with 
more  intense  fire,  and  holding  ;i  broad  band  of  what 
seemed  solid  color,  lor  more  than  three-quarters  of  an 
hour.  The  colors,  meantime,  on  the  level  water,  never 
were  on  painter's  palette,  and  never  were  counterfeited 
by  the  changeable  silks  of  Eastern  looms;  and  this  gor- 
geous spectacle  continued  till  the  stars  came  out,  crowd- 
ing the  sky  with  silver  points. 

Our  boatmen,  who  had  been  re-enforced  at  Capri,  and 
were  inspired  either  by  the  wine  of  the  island  or  the; 
beauty  of  the  night,  pulled  with  new  vigor,  and  broke 
out  au'ain  and  again  into  the  wild  songs  of  this  coast.  A 
favorite  was  the  Garibaldi  song,  which  invariably  ended 
in  a  cheer  and  a  tiger,  and  threw  the  singers  into  such  a 
spurt  of  excitement  that  the  oars  forgot  to  keep  time,  and 
there  was  more  splash  than  speed.  The  singers  all  sang 
!>ne  part  in  minor:  there  was  no  harmony,  the  voices 
were  not  rich,  and  the  melody  was  not  remarkable;  but 
there  was,  after  all,  a  wild  pathos  in  it.  Music  is  very 
much  hen;  what  it  is  in  Naples.  I  have  to  keep  saying 
to  myself  that  Italy  is  the  land  of  song;  else  I  should 
think  that  the  people  mistake  noise  for  music. 

The  boatmen  are  an  honest  set  of  fellows,  as  Italians 
go;  and,  let  us  hope,  not  unworthy  followers  of  their 
patron,  St.  Antonino,  whose  chapel  is  on  the  edge  of  the 
gorge  near  the  Villa  Nardi.  A  silver  image  of  the  saint, 
half  life-size,  stands  upon  the  rich  marble  altar.  This 
valuable  statin*  has  been,  if  tradition  is  correct,  five 
times  captured  and  carried  away  by  marauders,  who 
have  at  different  times  sacked  Sorrento  of  its  marbles, 
bronzes,  and  precious  things,  and  each  time,  by  some 
mysterious  providence,  has  found  its  way  back  again,  — • 


226  SEA  AND  SHORE. 

an  instance  of  constancy  in  a  solid  silver  image  which  is 
worthy  of  commendation.  The  little  chapel  is  hung  all 
about  with  votive  offerings  in  wax  of  arms,  legs,  heads, 
hands,  effigies,  and  with  coarse  lithographs,  in  frames,  of 
storms  at  sea  and  perils  of  ships,  hung  up  by  sailors  who, 
having  escaped  the  dangers  ot  the  deep,  offer  these  tri- 
butes to  their  dear  saint.  The  skirts  of  the  image  are 
worn  quite  smooth  with  kissing.  Underneath  it,  at  the 
back  of  the  altar,  an  oil  light  is  always  burning ;  and 
below  repose  the  bones  of  the  holy  man. 

The  whole  shore  is  fascinating  to  one  in  an  idle  mood, 
and  is  good  mousing  ground  for  the  antiquarian.  For 
myself,  I  am  content  with  one  generalization,  which  I 
find  saves  a  world  of  bother  and  perplexity :  it  is  quite 
safe  to  style  every  excavation,  cavern,  circular  wall,  or 
arch  by  the  sea,  a  Roman  bath.  It  is  the  final  resort  of 
the  antiquarians.  This  theory  has  kept  me  from  enter- 
ing the  discussion,  whether  the  substructions  in  the  cliff 
under  the  Poggio  Syracuse,  a  royal  villa,  are  temples  of 
the  Sirens,  or  caves  of  Ulysses.  I  only  know  that  I 
descend  to  the  sea  there  by  broad  interior  flights  of  steps, 
which  lead  through  galleries  and  corridors,  and  high, 
vaulted  passages,  whence  extend  apartments  and  caves 
far  reaching  into  the  solid  rock.  At  intervals  are  land- 
ings, where  arched  windows  are  cut  out  to  the  sea,  with 
stone  seats  and  protecting  walls.  At  the  base  of  the 
cliff,  I  find  a  hewn  passage,  as  if  there  had  once  been 
here  a  way  of  embarkation ;  and  enormous  fragments  of 
rocks,  with  steps  cut  in  them,  which  have  fallen  from 
above. 

Were  these  any  thing  more  than  royal  pleasure  gal- 
leries, where  one  could  sit  in  coolness  in  the  heat  of  sum- 
mer, and  look  on  the  bay  and  its  shipping,  in  the  days 
when  the  great  Roman  fleet  used  to  lie  opposite,  above 
the  point  of  Misenum  ?  How  many  brave  and  gay  ret- 
inues have  swept  down  these  broad  interior  stairways, 
let  us  say  in  the  picturesque  Middle  Ages,  to  embark  on 
voyages  of  pleasure  or  warlike  forays !  The  steps  are 


SEA  AND  SHORE.  227 

well  worn,  ami  must  have  been  trodden  for  a^es,  hy 
nobles  ar.d  robbers,  pea-ants  and  sailors,  priests  of  more 
than  one  religion,  and  traders  of  many  seas,  who  have 
<M»ne,  and  left  no  record.  The  sun  was  slanting  his  last 
ra\s  into  ihe  corridors  as  I  musingly  looked  down  from 
one  of  the  iv.-ched  openings,  (juito  spell-hound  hy  tho 
strangeness  and  dead  silence  of  the  place,  broken  only 
hv  the  plash  of  waves  on  the  sandy  beach  below.  I  had 
found  my  way  down  through  a  wooden  door  half  ajar; 
ami  1  thought  of  the.  possibility  of  some  one's  sliuttin-j  it 
lor  the  niirht,  and  leaving  me  a  prisom-r  to  await  tlie 
spectres  which  1  have  no  doubt  throng  here  when  it  urows 
dark.  Hastening  up  out  of  these  chambers  of  the  j»a>t, 
I  escaped  into  the  upper  air,  and  walked  rapidly  home 
through  the  nairow  orange  lanes. 


ON   TOP   OF    THE   HOUSE. 

THE  tip-top  of  the  Villa  Nardi  is  a  flat  roof,  \vith  a 
wall  about  it  three  feet  high,  and  some  little  tur- 
reted  alfairs,  that  look  very  much  likp  chimneys.    Joseph, 
the  gray-haired  servitor,  has  brought  my  chair  and  table 
up  here  to-day ;  and  here  I  am,  established  to  write. 

I  am  here  above  most  earthly  annoyances,  and  on  a 
level  with  the  heavenly  influences.  It  has  always  seemed 
to  me  that  the  higher  one  gets,  the  easier  it  must  be  to 
write ;  and  that,  especially  at  a  great  elevation,  one  could 
strike  into  lofty  themes,  and  launch  out,  without  fear  of 
shipwreck  on  any  of  the  earthly  headlands,  in  his  aerial 
voyages.  Yet,  after  all,  he  would  be  likely  to  arrive 
nowhere,  I  suspect ;  or,  to  change  the  figure,  to  find,  that, 
in  parting  with  the  taste  of  the  earth,  he  had  produced  a 
flavorless  composition.  If  it  were  not  for  the  haze  in  the 
horizon  to-day,  I  could  distinguish  the  very  house  in 
Naples  —  that  of  Manso,  Marquis  of  Villa  —  where  Tasso 
found  a  home,  and  where  John  Milton  was  entertained 
at  a  later  day  by  that  hospitable  nobleman.  I  wonder, 
if  he  had  come  to  the  Villa  Nardi  and  written  on  the 
roof,  if  the  theological  features  of  his  epic  would  have 
been  softened,  and  if  he  would  not  have  received  new 
suggestions  for  the  adornment  of  the  garden.  Of  course, 
it  is  well  that  his  immortal  production  was  not  composed 
on  this  roofj  and  in  sight  ol  these  seductive  shores,  or  it 
would  have  been  more  strongly  flavored  with  classic 
mythology  than  it  is.  But,  letting  Milton  go,  it  may  be 
necessary  to  say,  that  my  writing  to-day  has  nothing  to 
228 


ON  TOP  OF  THE  HOUSE.  229 

do  with  my  theorv  of  composition  in  an  elevated  p.,-i- 
tion  ;  lor  this  is  tin-  la/iest  plan-  that  I  have  yet  found. 

I  am  above  the  highest  olive-trees;  and,  if  I  turned 
that,  way,  should  look  over  the  tops  ot'  what  seems  a,  vast 
emvc  of  them,  out  of  whieh  a  white  roof,  and  an  ol  1 

time-eaten  tower  here  and  there,  appears ;  and  the  sun 

is  Hooding  them  with  waves  of  light,  which  I  think  a 
pewon  delicately  cnouu.h  organi/.ed  could  hear  beat. 
Beyond  the  brown  roots  of  the  town,  the  terraced  hills 
arise,  in  semi-circular  embrace  of  the  plain  ;  and  the  line 
veil  over  them  is  partly  the  natural  shimmer  of  the  heat, 
and  partly  the  silver  duskiness  of  the  olive-leaves.  I  sit 
with  my  back  to  all  this,  taking  the  entire  force  of  this 
winter  sun;  which  is  full  of  life  and  Denial  heat,  ami 
does  not  scorch  one,  as  I  remember  such  a  lull  Hood  of  it 
would  at  home.  It  is  putting  sweetness,  too,  into  the 
oranges;  which,  I  observe,  are  petting  redder  and  softer 
day  by  day.  \Ve  have  here,  by  the  way,  such  a  habit 
of  taking  up  an  orange,  weighing  it  in  the  hand,  and 
guessing  if  it  is  ripe,  that  the  test  is  extending  to  other 
things.  J  saw  a  gentleman  this  morning,  at  breakfast, 
weighing  an  egg  in  the  same  manner;  and  some  one 
asked  him  if  it  was  ripe. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  Mediterranean  was  never 
bluer  than  it  is  to-day.  It  has  a  shade  or  two  the  advan- 
tage of  the  sky  :  though  I  like  the  sky  best,  after  all ;  for 
it  is  less  opaque,  and  oilers  an  illimitable  opportunity  of 
exploration.  Perhaps  this  is  because  I  am  nearer  to  it. 
There  are  some  little  ruflles  of  air  on  the  sea,  which  I 
do  not  ieel  here,  making  broad  spots  of  shadow,  and  heru 
and  there  flecks  and  sparkles.  But  the  schooners  sail 
idly  ;  and  the  fishing-boats  that  have  put  out  from  the 
marina  float  in  the  most  dreamy  manner.  I  fear  that 
the  fishermen  who  have  made  a  show  of  industry,  and 
got  away  from  their  wives,  who  are  busily  weaving  nets 
on  shore,  are  yielding  to  the  seductions  of  the  occasion, 
and  making  a  day  of  it.  And,  as  I  look  at  them,  I  found 
my  sell'  debating  which  I  would  rather  be,  a  li^heriuau 
20 


230  ON  TOP  OF  THE  HOUSE. 

there  in  the  boat,  rocked  by  the  swell,  and  warmed  by 
the  sun,  or  a  friar,  on  the  terrace  of  the  garden  on  the 
summit  of  Deserto,  lying  perfectly  tranquil,  and  also 
soaked  in  the  sun.  There  is  one  other  person,  now  that 
I  think  of  it,  who  may  be  having  a  good  time  to-day, 
though  I  do  not  know  that  I  envy  him.  His  business  is  a 
new  one  to  me,  and  is  an  occupation  that  one  would  not 
care  to  recommend  to  a  friend  until  he  had  tried  it:  it  is 
being  carried  about  in  a  basket.  As  I 'went  up  the  ne\v 
Massa  road  the  other  day,  I  met  a  ragged,  stout,  and 
rather  dirty  woman,  with  a  large  shallow  basket  on  her 
head.  In  it  lay  her  husband,  —  a  large  man,  though  I 
think  a  little  abbreviated  as  to  his  legs.  The  woman 
asked  alms.  Talk  of  Diogenes  in  his  tub  !  How  must 
the  world  look  to  a  man  in  a  basket,  riding  about  on  his 
wife's  head  ?  When  I  returned,  she  had  put  him  down 
beside  the  road  in  the  sun,  and  almost  in  danger  of  the 
passing  vehicles.  I  suppose  that  the  affectionate  creature 
thought,  that,  if  he  got  a  new  injury  in  this  way,  his 
value  in  the  beggar  market  would  be  increased.  I  do 
not  mean  to  do  this  exemplary  wife  any  injustice  ;  and  I 
only  suggest  the  idea  in  this  land,  where  every  beggar 
who  is  born  with  a  deformity  has  something  to  thank  the 
Virgin  for.  This  custom  of  carrying  your  husband  on 
your  head  in  a  basket  has  something  to  recommend  it, 
and  is  an  exhibition  of  faith  on  the  one  hand,  and  of 
devotion  on  the  other,  that  is  seldom  met  with.  Its 
consideration  is  commended  to  my  countrywomen  at 
home.  It  is,  at  least,  a  new  commentary  on  the  apos- 
tolic remark,  that  the  man  is  the  head  of  the  woman. 
It  is,  in  some  respects,  a  happy  division  of  labor  in  the 
walk  of  life :  she  furnishes  the  locomotive  power,  and  he 
the  directing  brains,  as  he  lies  in  the  sun  and  looks 
abroad ;  which  reminds  me  that  the  sun  is  getting  hot 
on  my  back.  The  little  bunch  of  bells  in  the  convent 
tower  is  jangling  out  a  suggestion  of  worship,  or  of  the 
departure  of  the  hours.  It  is  time  to  cat  an  orange. 
Vesuvius  appears  to  be  about  on  a  level  with  my  eyes ; 


ON  TOP  OF  THE  HOUSE.  231 

and  I  never  knew  him  to  do  himself  more  credit  than  to- 
day. The  win tk>  coast  of  the  bay  is  in  a  sort  of  oh-cura- 
tion,  thicker  than  an  Indian  summer  haze  ;  and  tin-  \i-il 
extends  almost  to  the  top  of  Vesuvius.  But  his  summit 
is  still  distinct  ;  and  out  of  it  rises  a  gigantic  billowy 
column  of  white  smoke,  greater  in  quantity  than  on  any 
previous  day  of  our  sojourn;  and  the  sun  turns  it  to  sil- 
ver. Above  a  long  line  of  ordinary-looking  clouds,  iloat 
great  white  masses,  formed  of  the  sulphurous  vapor. 
This  manufacture  of  clouds  in  a  clear,  sunny  day  has  an 
odd  appearance  ;  but  it  is  easy  enough,  if  one  has  siu-h 
a  laboratory  as  Vesuvius.  How  it  tumbles  up  the  white 
smoke!  It  is  piled  up  now,  I  should  say,  a  thousand 
fed  above  the  crater,  straight  into  the  blue  sky,  —  a 
pillar  of  cloud  by  day.  One  might  sit  here  all  day, 
watching  it,  listening  the  while  to  the  melodious  spring 
singing  of  the  hundreds  of  birds  which  have  come  to 
take  possession  of  the  garden,  receiving  Southern  re- 
enforcements  from  Sicily  and  Tunis  every  morning,  and 
think  he  was  happy.  But  the  morning  has  gone ;  and  J 
have  written  nothing. 


THE  PRICE  OF  ORANGES. 

IF  ever  a  Northern  wanderer  could  be  suddenly  trans- 
ported to  look  down  upon  the  Piano  di  Sorrento,  he 
would  not  doubt  that  he  saw  the  Garden  of  the  Hes- 

Eeridcs.  The  orange-trees  cannot  well  be  fuller:  their 
ranches  bend  with  the  weight  of  fruit.  With  the 
almond-trees  in  full  flower,  and  with  the  silver  sheen  of 
the  olive  leaves,  the  oranges  are  apples  of  gold  in  pic- 
tures of  silver.  As  I  walk  in  these  sunken  roads,  and 
between  these  high  walls,  the  orange  boughs  everywhere 
hang  over ;  and,  through  the  open  gates  of  villas,  I  look 
down  alleys  of  golden  glimmer,  roses  and  geraniums  by 
the  walk,  and  the  fruit  above,  —  gardens  of  enchantment, 
with  never  a  dragon,  that  I  can  see,  to  guard  them. 

All  the  highways  and  the  byways,  the  streets  and 
hues,  wherever  I  go,  from  the  sea  to  the  tops  of  the 
hills,  are  strewn  with  orange-peel;  so  that  one,  looking 
i\ !  >ove  and  below,  comes  back  from  a  walk  with  a  golden 
d  izzle  in  his  eyes,  —  a  sense  that  yellow  is  the  prevail- 
ing color.  Perhaps  the  kerchiefs  of  the  dark-skinned 
girls  and  women,  which  take  that  tone,  help  the  impres- 
sion. The  inhabitants  are  all  orange-eaters.  The  high 
walls  show  that  the  gardens  are  protected  with  great 
care ;  yet  the  fruit  seems  to  be  as  free  as  apples  are  in  a 
remote  New-England  town  about  cider-time. 

I  have  been  trying,  ever  since  I  have  been  here,  to 
ascertain  the  price  of  oranges ;  not  for  purposes  of  ex- 
portation, nor  yet  for  the  personal  importation  that  I 
daily  practise,  but  in  order  to  give  an  American  basis 
232 


THE  PRICE  OF  ORAXGES.  233 

of  fact  to  those  idle  chapters.  Tn  all  the  paths,  I  meet, 
daily,  «j;irls  and  hoys  hearing  on  llieir  head>  large  baskets 
ol'  the  i'niit,  and  little  children  with  hags  and  handles 
of  the  same,  as  lar_L'e  as  they  can  dagger  nnder;  and  I 
understand  they  are  carrying  them  to  the  packers,  who 
ship  them  to  New  York,  or  to  the  depoK  where  I  see 
them  lying  in  yellow  heaps,  and  where  men  and  women 
are  cutting  them  np,  and  removing  tin;  peel,  which  goes 
to  England  tor  preserves.  I  am  told  that  these  oranges 
arc  sold  lor  a  couple  of  francs  a  hundred.  That  sc(  ms 
to  me  so  dear  that  I  am  not  tempted  into  any  speculation, 
but  stroll  hack  to  the  Tramontano,  in  the  gardens  of 
which  I  find  better  terms. 

The  only  trouble  is  to  find  a  sweet  tree;  for  the  Sor- 
rento oranges  are  usually  sour  in  February;  and  one 
needs  to  be  a  good  judge  of  the  fruit,  and  know  the  male 
orange  from  the  female,  —  though  which  it  is  that  is  the 
sweeter  I  can  never  remember  (and  should  not  dare,  to 
say,  if  I  did,  in  the  present  state  of  feeling  on  the  woman 
question),  —  or  he  might  as  well  eat  a  lemon.  The 
mercenary  aspect  of  my  query  does  not  enter  in  here. 
I  climb  into  a  tree,  and  reach  out  to  the  end  of  the 
branch  for  an  orange  that  has  got  reddish  in  the  sun, 
that  comes  oil*  easily  and  is  heavy;  or  I  tickle  a  largo 
one  on  the  top  bough  with  a  cane  pole  ;  and  if  it  drops 
readily,  and  has  a  fine  grain,  I  call  it  a  cheap  one.  I 
can  usually  tell  whether  they  are  good,  by  splitting  them 
open  and  eating  a  quarter.  The  Italians  pare  their 
oranges  as  we  do  apples ;  but  I  like  best  to  open  them 
first,  and  see  the  yellow  meat  in  the  white  casket.  After 
you  have  eaten  a  few  from  one  tree,  you  can  usually  tell 
whether  it  is  a  good  tree ;  but  there  is  nothing  certain 
about  it,  —  one  bough  that  gets  the  sun  will  be  better 
than  another  that  does  not,  and  one-half  of  an  orange 
will  fill  your  mouth  with  more  delicious  juices  than  the 
other  half. 

The  oranges  that  you  knock  off  with  your  stick,  as 
you  walk  along  the  lanes,  don't  cost  any  thing ;  but  they 
20* 


234  THE  PRICE  OF  ORANGES. 

are  always  sour,  as  I  think  the  girls  know  who  lean  over 
the  wall,  and  look  on  with  a  smile :  and,  in  that,  they' 
are  more  sensible  than  the  lively  dogs  which  bark  at  you 
from  the  top,  and  wake  all  the  neighborhood  with  their 
clamor.  I  have  no  doubt  the  oranges  have  a  market 
price ;  but  I  have  been  seeking  the  value  the  gardeners 
set  on  them  themselves.  As  I  walked  towards  the 
heights,  the  other  morning,  and  passed  an  orchard,  the 
gardener,  who  saw  my  ineffectual  efforts,  with  a  very 
long  cane,  to  reach  the  boughs  of  a  tree,  came  down  to 
me  with  a  basket! ul  he  had  been  picking.  As  an  exper- 
iment on  the  price,  I  offered  him  a  two-centime  piece, 

—  which  is  a  sort  of  satire  on  the  very  name  of  money, 

—  when  he  desired  me  to  help  myself  to  as  many  oranges 
as  I  liked.     He  was  a  fine-looking  fellow,  with  a  spick- 
span   new  red   Phrygian  cap;   and  I  hadn't  the  heart 
to  take  advantage  of  his  generosity,  especially  as  his 
oranges  were  not  of  the  sweetest.     One  ought  never  to 
abuse  generosity. 

Another  experience  was  of  a  different  sort,  and  illus- 
trates the  Italian  love  of  bargaining,  and  their  notion  of 
a  sliding  scale  of  prices.  One  of  our  expeditions  to  the 
hills  was  one  day  making  its  long,  straggling  way  through 
the  narrow  street  of  a  little  village  of  the  Piano,  when 
I  lingered  behind  my  companions,  attracted  by  a  hand- 
cart with  several  large  baskets  of  oranges.  The  cart 
stood  untended  in  the  street ;  and  selecting  a  large 
orange,  which  would  measure  twelve  inches  in  circum- 
ference, I  turned  to  look  for  the  owner.  After  some 
time,  a  fellow  got  from  the  open  front  of  the  neighboring 
cobbler's  shop,  where  he  sat  with  his  lazy  cronies,  listen- 
ing to  the  honest  gossip  of  the  follower  of  St.  Crispin, 
and  sauntered  towards  me. 

"  How  much  for  this  ?  "  I  ask. 

"  One  franc,  signor,"  says  the  proprietor,  with  a  polite 
bow,  holding  up  one  finger. 

I  shake  my  head,  and  intimate  that  that  is  altogether 
too  much,  in  fact,  preposterous. 


THE  PRICE  OF  ORANGES.  235 

The  proprietor  is  very  indifferent,  and  shrubs  his 
shoulders  in  an  amiable  manner,  lie  picks  up  a  lair, 
liandsonie  orange,  weighs  it,  in  his  hand,  and  holds  it  up 
temptingly.  That  also  is  one  1'ranc. 

I  suggest  one  sou  as  a  fair  price,  a  suggestion  which 
he  only  receives  with  a  smile  of  slight  pity,  and,  I  fancy, 
a  little  disdain.  A  woman  joins  him,  and  also  holds  up 
this  and  that  gold-skinned  one  for  my  admiration. 

As  I  stand,  sorting  over  the  fruit,  trying  to  please 
myself  with  si/e,  color,  and  texture,  a  little  crowd  has 
gathered  round;  and  I  see,  by  a  glance,  that  all  the 
occupations  in  that  neighborhood,  including  loafing,  are 
temporarily  suspended  to  witness  the  trade.  The  inter- 
est of  the  circle  visibly  increases ;  and  others  take  such 
a  part  in  the  transaction,  that  I  bc^4u  to  doubt  if  the 
fir>t  man  is,  after  all,  the  proprietor. 

At  length  I  select  two  oranges,  and  acrain  demand  the 
price.  There  is  a  little  consultation  and  jabber,  when  I 
am  told  that  I  can  have  both  for  a  franc.  I,  in  turn,  sigh, 
shrug  my  shoulders,  and  put  down  the  oranges,  amid  a 
chorus  of  exclamations  over  my  graspingness.  My  offer 
of  two  sous  is  met  with  ridicule,  but  not  with  indiffer- 
ence. I  can  see  that  it  has  made  a  sensation.  These 
simple,  idle  children  of  the  sun  begin  to  show  a  little 
excitement.  I  at  length  determine  upon  a  bold  stroke, 
and  resolve  to  show  myself  the  Napoleon  of  oranges,  or 
to  meet  my  Waterloo.  I  pick  out  four  of  the  largest 
oranges  in' the  basket,  while  all  eyes  are  fixed  on  me 
intently,  and,  for  the  first  time,  pull  out  a  piece  of  money. 
It  is  a  two-sous  piece.  I  offer  it  for  the  four  oranges. 

"  No,  no,  no,  no,  signor !  Ah,  signor  1  ah,  signor  1 "  in 
a  chorus  from  the  whole  crowd. 

I  have  struck  bottom  at  last,  and  perhaps  got  some- 
where near  the  value ;  and  all  calmness  is  gone.  Such 
protestations,  such  indignation,  such  sorrow,  I  have  never 
seen  before  from  so  small  a  cause.  It  cannot  be  thought 
of;  it  is  mere  ruin  !  I  am,  in  turn,  as  firm,  and  nearly 
as  excited  in  seeming.  I  hold  up  the  fruit,  and  tender 
the  money. 


236  THE  PRICE  OF  ORANGES. 

"  No,  never,  never !    The  signor  cannot  be  in  earnest." 

Looking  round  me  for  a  moment,  and  assuming  a  the- 
atrical manner,  befitting  the  gestures  of  those  about  me, 
I  fling  the  fruit  down,  and,  with  a  sublime  renunciation, 
stalk  away. 

There  is  instantly  a  buzz  and  a  hum  that  rises  almost 
to  a  clamor.  I  have  not  proceeded  far,  when  a  skinny 
old  woman  runs  after  me,  and  begs  me  to  return.  I  go 
back,  and  the  crowd  parts  to  receive  me. 

The  proprietor  has  a  new  proposition,  the  effect  of  which 
upon  me  is  intently  watched.  He  proposes  to  give  me  five 
big  oranges  for  four  sous.  I  receive  it  with  utter  scorn,  and 
a  laugh  of  derision.  I  will  give  two  sous  for  the  origi- 
nal four,  and  not  a  centesimo  more.  That  I  solemnly 
say,  and  am  ready  to  depart.  Hesitation  and  renewed 
conference ;  but  at  last  the  proprietor  relents ;  and,  with 
the  look  of  one  who  is  ruined  for  life,  and  who  yet  is 
willing  to  sacrifice  himself,  he  hands  me  the  oranges. 
Instantly  the  excitement  is  dead,  the  crowd  disperses,  and 
the  street  is  as  quiet  as  ever ;  when  I  walk  away,  bearing 
my  hard-won  treasures. 

A  little  while  alter,  as  I  sat  upon  the  outer  wall  of  the 
terrace  of  the  Camaldoli,  with  my  feet  hanging  over, 
these  same  oranges  were  taken  from  my  pockets  by 
Americans ;  so  that  I  am  prevented  from  making  any 
moral  reflections  upon  the  honesty  of  the  Italians. 

There  is  an  immense  garden  of  oranges  and  lemons 
at  the  village  of  Massa,  through  which  travellers  are 
shown  by  a  surly  fellow,  who  keeps  watch  of  his  trees, 
and  has  a  bull-dog  lurking  about  for  the  unwary.  I  hate 
to  see  a  bull-dog  in  a  fruit-orchard.  I  have  eaten  a  good 
many  oranges  there,  and  been  astonished  at  the  boughs 
of  immense  lemons  which  bend  the  trees  to  the  ground. 
I  took  occasion  to  measure  one.  of  the  lemons,  called  a 
citron-lemon,  and  found  its  circumference  to  be  twenty- 
one  inches  one  way  by  fifteen  inches  the  other,  —  about 
as  big  as  a  railway-conductor's  lantern.  These  lemons 
are  not  so  sour  as  the  fellow  who  shows  them :  he  is  a 


7 HE  PRICE  OF  ORANGES.  237 

mercenary  dog,  ami  his  prices  afford  me  no  clew  to  the 
just  vahu'  of  oranges. 

I  like  better  to  go  to  a  little  garden  in  the  village  of 
Mcta,  under  a  sunny  precipice-  of  rocks,  overhung  by  the 
ruined  convent  of  Gamaldoli.  I  turn  up  a,  narrow  lane, 
and  push  open  the  wooden  door  in  the  garden  of  a  little 
villa.  It  is  a  pretty  garden;  and,  besides  the  orange 
and  lemon  trees  on  the  terrace,  it  has  other  fruit-trees, 
and  a  scent  of  many  flowers.  My  friend,  the  gardener, 
is  sorting  oranges  from  one  basket  to  another,  on  a 
bank,  and  evidently  selling  the  fruit  to  some  women, 
who  are.  putting  it  into  bags  to  carry  away. 

When  he  sees  me  approach,  there  is  always  the  same 
pantomime.  I  propose  to  take  some  of  the  fruit  be  is 
sorting.  With  a  Knowing  air,  and  an  appearance  of 
great  mystery,  he  raises  his  left  hand,  the  palm  toward 
me.  .is  one  says  hush.  Having  despatched  bis  business, 
he  takes  an  empty  basket,  and  with  another  mysterious 
flourish,  desiring  me  to  remain  quiet,  he  goes  to  a  store- 
house in  one  corner  of  the  garden,  and  returns  with  a 
load  of  immense  oranges,  all  soaked  with  the  sun,  ripe 
and  fragrant,  and  more  tempting  than  lumps  of  gold.  I 
take  one,  and  ask  him  if  it  is  sweet.  He  shrugs  his 
shoulders,  raises  his  hands,  and,  with  a  sidewise  shake 
of  the  head,  and  a  look  which  says,  How  can  you  be  so 
faithless?  makes  me  ashamed  of  my  doubts. 

I  cut  the  thick  skin,  which  easily  falls  apart,  and  dis- 
closes the  luscious  quarters,  plump,  juicy,  and  waiting  to 
melt  in  the  mouth.  I  look  ibr  a  moment  at  the  rich  pulp 
in  its  soft  incasement,  and  then  try  a  delicious  morsel. 
I  nod.  My  gardener  again  shrugs  his  shoulders,  with  a 
slight  smile,  as  much  as  to  say,  it  could  not  be  otherwise, 
and  is  evidently  delighted  to  have  me  enjoy  his  fruit.  I  (ill 
capacious  pockets  with  the  choicest;  and,  if  J  have  friends 
with  me,  they  do  the  same.  I  give  our  silent  but  most 
expressive  entertainer  half  a  franc,  never  more  ;  and  he 
always  seems  surprised  at  the  size  of  the  Largesse.  We 
exhaust  his  basket,  and  he  proposes  to  get  more. 


238  THE  PRICE  OF  ORANGES. 

When  I  am  alone,  I  stroll  about  under  the  heavily- 
laden  trees,  and  pick  up  the  largest,  where  they  lie 
thickly  on  the  ground,  liking  to  hold  them  in  my  hand 
and  feel  the  agreeable  weight,  even  when  I  can  carry 
away  no  more.  The  gardener  neither  follows  nor  watches 
me ;  and  I  think  perhaps  knows,  and  is  not  stingy  about 
it,  that  more  valuable  to  me  than  the  oranges  I  eat  or 
take  away  are  those  on  the  trees  among  the  shining 
leaves.  And  perhaps  he  opines  that  I  am  from  a  coun- 
try of  snow  and  ice,  where  the  year  has  six  hostile 
months,  and  that  I  have  not  money  enough  to  pay  for 
the  rich  possession  of  the  eye,  tb*  picture  of  beauty, 
which  I  take  with  me. 


FASCINATION. 

r~n.HERE  are  three  places  where  I  should  like  to  live ; 
I  naming  them  in  the  inverse  order  of  preference,  — 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  Sorrento,  and  Heaven.  The  first  two 
have  something  in  common,  —  the  almost  mystic  union 
of  sky  and  sea  and  shore,  a  soft  atmospheric  suffusion 
that  works  an  enchantment,  and  puts  one  into  a  dreamy 
mood.  And  yet  there  are  decided  contrasts.  The  super- 
abundant, soaking  sunshine  of  Sorrento  is  of  very  differ- 
ent quality  from  that  of  the  Isle  of  Wight.  On  the 
island  there  is  a  sense  of  home,  which  one  misses  on  this 
promontory,  the  fascination  of  which,  no  less  strong,  is 
that  of  a  southern  beauty,  whose  charms  conquer  rather 
than  win.  I  remember  with  what  feeling  I  one  day 
unexpectedly  read  on  a  white  slab,  in  the  little  enclosure 
of  Bonchurch,  where  the  sea  whispered  as  gently  as  the 
rustle  of  the  ivy-leaves,  the  name  of  John  Sterling. 
Could  there  be  any  fitter  resting-place  for  that  tost, 
weary,  and  gentle  spirit?  There  I  seemed  to  know  he 
had  the  rest  that  he  could  not  have  anywhere  on  these 
brilliant  historic  shores.  Yet  so  impressible  was  his  sen- 
sitive nature,  that  I  doubt  not,  if  he  had  given  himself 
up  to  the  enchantment  of  these  coasts  in  his  lifetime,  it 
would  have  led  him  by  a  spell  he  could  not  break. 

I  am  somelimes  in  doubt  what  is  the  spell  of  Sorrento, 
and  half  believe  that  it  is  independent  of  any  thing  visi- 
ble. There  is  said  to  be  a  fatal  enchantment  about  Capri. 
The  influences  of  Sorrento  are  not  so  dangerous,  hut  are 
almost  as  marked.  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  Greeks 

239 


240  FASCINA  TION. 

peopled  every  cove  and  sea-cave  with  divinities,  and  built 
temples  on  every  headland  and  rocky  islet  here ;  that  the 
Romans  built  upon  the  Grecian  ruins  ;  that  the  ecclesi- 
astics in  succeeding  centuries  gained  possession  of  all  the 
heights,  and  built  convents  and  monasteries,  and  set  out 
vineyards,  and  orchards  of  olives  and  oranges,  and  took 
root  as  the  creeping  plants  do,  spreading  themselves 
abroad  in  the  sunshine  and  charming  air.  The  Italian 
of  to-day  does  not  willingly  emigrate,  is  tempted  by  no 
seduction  of  better  fortune  in  any  foreign  clime.  And  so 
in  all  ages  the  swarming  populations  have  clung  to  these 
shores,  filling  all  the  coasts  and  every  nook  in  these  almost 
inaccessible  hills  with  life.  Perhaps  the  delicious  climate, 
which  avoids  all  extremes,  sufficiently  accounts  for  this ; 
and  yet  I  have  sometimes  thought  there  is  a  more  subtle 
reason  why  travellers  from  far  lands  are  spell-bound  here, 
often  against  will  and  judgment,  week  after  week,  month 
after  month. 

However  this  may  be,  it  is  certain  that  strangers  who 
come  here,  and  remain  long  enough  to  get  entangled  in 
the  meshes  which  some  influence,  I  know  not  what,  throws 
around  them,  are  in  danger  of  never  departing.  I  know 
there  are  scores  of  travellers,  who  whisk  down  from 
Naples,  guide-book  in  hand,  goaded  by  the  fell  purpose 
of  seeing  every  place  in  Europe,  ascend  some  height,  buy 
a  load  of  the  beautiful  inlaid  wood-work,  perhaps  row 
over  to  Capri  and  stay  five  minutes  in  the  azure  grotto, 
and  then  whisk  away  again,  untouched  by  the  glamour 
of  the  place.  Enough  that  they  write  "  delightful  spot " 
in  their  diaries,  and  hurry  off  to  new  scenes,  and  more 
noisy  life.  But  the  visitor  who  yields  himself  to  the  place 
will  soon  find  his  power  of  will  departing.  Some  satiri- 
cal people  say,  that,  as  one  grows  strong  in  body  here, 
he  becomes  weak  in  mind.  The  theory  I  do  not  accept : 
one  simply  folds  his  sails,  unships  his  rudder,  and  waits 
the  will  of  Providence,  or  the  arrival  of  some  compelling 
fate.  The  longer  one  remains,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to 
go.  We  have  a  fashion  —  indeed,  I  may  call  it  a  habit 


FASCINATION'.  241 

—  of  deciding  to  go,  and  of  never  going.  It  is  a  subject 
of  infinite  jest  amoifj;  tin1  Jnibttm'*  of  the  villa,  who  meet 
at  table,  and  who  are  always  bidding  each  other  good- 
l»y.  We  nit  en  go  so  far  as  to  write  to  Naples  at  night, 
and  hespeak  rooms  in  the  hotels;  but  we  always  cotinter- 
niand  the  order  before  we  sit  down  to  breakfast.  The. 
good-natured  mistress  of  affairs,  the  head  of  the  bureau 
ofdomestie  relations,  is  at  her  wits'  end,  with  guests  who 
alwiMs  promise  to  go  and  never  depart.  There  are  here 
a  gentleman  and  his  wife,  English  people  of  decision 
enough,  I  presume,  in  Cornwall,  who  packed  their  lug- 
gage before  Christmas  to  depart,  but  who  have  not  gone, 
towards  the  end  of  February,  —  who  daily  talk  of  going, 
and  little,  by  little  unpack  their  wardrobe,  as  their  deter- 
mination oozes  out.  It  is  easy  enough  to  decide  at  night 
to  go  next  day;  but  in  the  morning,  when  the  soft  sun- 
shine comes  in  at  the  window,  and  when  we  descend  and 
walk  in  the  garden,  all  our  good  intentions  vanish.  It  is 
not  simply  that  we  do  not  go  away,  but  we  have  lost  the 
motive  tor  those  long  excursions  which  we  made  at  first, 
and  which  more  adventurous  travellers  indulge  in. 
There  are  those  here  who  have  intended  for  weeks  to 
spend  a  day  on  Capri.  Perfect  day  for  the  expedition 
succeeds  perfect  day,  boat-load  after  boat-load  sails  away 
from  the  little  marina  at  the  base  of  the  cliff,  which  we 
follow  with  eyes  of  desire,  but  —  to-morrow  will  do  as 
well.  We  are  powerless  to  break  the  enchantment. 

1  confess  to  the  fancy  that  there  is  some  subtle  influ- 
ence working  this  sea-change  in  us,  which  the  guide- 
books, in  their  enumeration  of  the  delights  of  the  region, 
do  not  touch,  and  which  maybe  reaches  back  beyond  the 
Christian  era.  I  have  always  supposed  that  the  story  of 
Ulysses  and  the  Sirens  was  only  a  fiction  of  the  pods, 
intended  to  illustrate  the  allurements  of  a  soul  given 
over  to  pleasure,  and  deaf  to  the  call  of  duty  and  the 
excitement  of  a  grapple  with  the  world.  But,  a  ladv  here, 
herself  one  of  the  entranced,  tells  me,  that  whoever  climbs 
the  hills  behind  Sorrento,  and  looks  upon  the  Isle  of  the, 


242  FASCINATION. 

Sirens,  is  struck  with  an  inability  to  form  a  desire  to 
depart  from  these  coasts.  I  have  gazed  at  those  islands 
more  than  once,  as  they  lie  there  in  the  Bay  of  Salerno ; 
and  it  has  always  happened  that  they  have  been  in  a 
half-misty  and  not  uncolored  sunlight,  but  not  so  draped 
that  I  could  not  see  they  were  only  three  irregular  rocks, 
not  far  from  shore,  one  of  them  with  some  ruins  on  it. 
There  are  neither  Sirens  there  now,  nor  any  other 
creatures ;  but  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  I  should  never 
see  them  again.  When  I  look  down  on  them,  I  can  also 
turn  and  behold  on  the  other  side,  across  the  Bay  of 
Naples,  the  Posilipo,  where  one  of  the  enchanters  who 
threw  magic  over  them  is  said  to  lie  in  his  high  tomb  at 
the  opening  of  the  grotto.  Whether  he  does  sleep  in  his 
urn  in  that  exact  spot  is  of  no  moment.  Modern  life  has 
dis-illusioned  this  region  to  a  great  extent ;  but  the 
romance  that  the  old  poets  have  woven  about  these  bays 
and  rocky  promontories  comes  very  easily  back  upon  one 
who  submits  himself  long  to  the  eternal  influences  of  sky 
and  sea  which  made  them  sing.  It  is  all  one,  — to  be  a 
Roman  poet  in  his  villa,  a  lazy  friar  of  the  Middle  Ages 
toasting  in  the  sun,  or  a  modern  idler,  who  has  drifted 
here  out  of  the  active  currents  of  life,  and  cannot  make 
up  his  mind  to  depart. 


MONKISH    PERCHES. 

ON  heights  at  either  end  of  the  Piano  <li  Sorrento, 
and  commanding  it,  stood  two  religious  houses  : 
the  Convent  of  the  Camaldoli  to  the  north-east,  on  the 
crest  of  the  lull  above  Meta;  the  Carthusian  Monastery 
of  the  Deserto,  to  the  south-west,  three  miles  above  Sor- 
rento. The  longer  I  stay  here,  the  more  respect  J  have 
for  the  taste  of  the  monks  of  the  Middle  Ages.  They 
invariably  secured  the  best  places  for  themselves.  They 
seized  all  the  strategic  points ;  they  appropriated  all  the 
commanding  heights ;  they  knew  where  the  sun  would 
best  strike  the  grape-vines;  they  perched  themselves 
wherever  there  was  a  royal  view.  When  I  see  how 
unerringly  they  did  select  and  occupy  the  eligible  places, 
I  think  they  were  moved  by  a  sort  of  inspiration.  In 
those  days,  when  the  Church  took  the  first  choice  in 
every  thing,  the  temptation  to  a  Christian  life  must 
have  been  strong. 

The  monastery  at  the  Deserto  was  suppressed  by  the 
French  of  the  first  republic,  and  has  long  been  in  a  ruin- 
ous condition.  Its  buildings  crown  the  apex  of  the  high- 
est elevation  in  this  part  of  the  promontory  :  from  its  roof 
the  fathers  paternally  looked  down  upon  the  churches 
and  chapels  and  nunneries  which  thickly  studded  all 
this  region ;  so  that  I  fancy  the  air  must  have  been  full 
of  the  sound  of  bells,  and  of  incense  perpetually  ascend- 
ing. They  looked  also  upon  St.  Agata  under  the  hill, 
with  a  church  bigger  than  itself;  upon  more  distinct 
Massa,  with  itr  chapelfl  and  cathedral  and  overlooking 

213 


244  MONKISH  PERCHES. 

feudal  tower ;  upon  Torca,  the  Greek  Theorica,  with  its 
Temple  of  Apollo,  the  scene  yet  of  an  annual  religious 
festival,  to  which  the  peasants  of  Sorrento  go  as  their 
ancestors  did  to  the  shrine  of  the  heathen  god;  upon 
olive  and  orange  orchards,  and  winding  paths  and  way- 
side shrines  innumerable.  A  sweet  and  peaceful  scene 
in  the  foreground,  it  must  have  been,  and  a  whole  hori- 
zon of  enchantment  beyond  the  sunny  peninsula  over 
which  it  lorded :  the  Mediterranean,  with  poetic  Capri, 
and  Ischia,  and  all  the  classic  shore  from  Cape  Misenum, 
Baia?,  and  Naples,  round  to  Vesuvius;  all  the  sparkling 
Bay  of  Naples ;  and  on  the  other  side,  the  Bay  of  Salerno, 
covered  with  the  fleets  of  the  commerce  of  Amalfi,  then 
a  republican  city  of  fifty  thousand  people ;  and  Grecian 
Pa3Stum  on  the  marshy  shore,  even  then  a  ruin,  its  de- 
serted porches  and  columns  monuments  of  an  archi- 
tecture never  equalled  elsewhere  in  Italy.  Upon  this 
charming  perch,  the  old  Carthusian  monks  took  the 
summer  breezes  and  the  winter  sun,  pruned  their  olives, 
and  trimmed  their  grape-vines,  and  said  prayers  for  the 
poor  sinners  toiling  in  the  valleys  below. 

The  monastery  is  a  desolate  old  shed  now.  We  left 
our  donkeys  to  eat  thistles  in  front,  while  we  climbed  up 
some  dilapidated  steps,  and  entered  the  crumbling  hall. 
The  present  occupants  are  half  a  dozen  monks,  and  fine 
fellows  too,  who  have  an  orphan  school  of  some  twenty 
lads.  We  were  invited  to  witness  their  noonday  pray- 
ers. The  flat-roofed  rear  buildings  extend  round  an 
oblong,  quadrangular  space,  which  is  a  rich  garden, 
watered  from  capacious  tanks,  and  coaxed  into  easy 
fertility  by  the  impregnating  sun.  Upon  these  roofs 
the  brothers  were  wont  to  walk,  and  here  they  sat  at 
peaceful  evening.  Here,  too,  we  strolled ;  and  here  I 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  lie  an  unheeded  hoi; 
or  two,  soaking  in  the  benignant  February  sun,  aboT 
every  human  concern  and  care,  looking  upon  a  lar  ; 
and  sea  steeped  in  rouianee.  The  sky  was  blue  above  ; 
but  in  the  south  horizon,  in  the  direction  of  Tunis, 


MONKISH  PERCHES.  245 

(lie  piismatie  colors.     Why  not  be  a  monk,  and  lie  in 
tlu-  sun  ? 

One  of  the  handsome  brothers  invited  us  into  llie 
refectory,  a  place  as  bare  and  cheerless  as  the  fecding- 
room  of  a  retbrni  school,  and  set  before  us  bread  and 
cheese,  and  red  wine,  made  by  the  monks.  I  notice 
that  the  monks  do  not  -water  their  wine  so  much  as 
the  osteria  keepers  do  ;  which  speaks  equally  w»jll  for 
their  religion  and  their  taste.  The  Hour  of  the  room 
was  brick,  the  table  plain  boards,  and  the  seats  were 
benches;  not  much  luxury.  The  monk  who  served  us 
was  an  accomplished  man,  travelled,  and  master  of  sev- 
eral Language&  He  spoke  English  a  little.  He  had 
been  several  years  in  America,  and  was  much  interested 
when  we  told  him  our  nationality. 

"  Does  the  signor  live  nenr  Mexico?" 

"Not  in  dangerous  proximity,"  we  replied;  but  we 
did  not  forfeit  his  good  opinion  by  saying  that  we 
visited  it  but  seldom. 

Well,  he  had  seen  all  quarters  of  the  globe  :  he  had 
been  for  years  a  traveller,  but  he  had  come  back  here 
with  a  stronger  love  for  it  than  ever;  it  was  to  him  the 
most  delightful  spot  on  earth,  he  said.  And  we  could 
not  tell  him  where  its  equal  is.  If  I  had  nothing  else  to 
do,  I  think  I  should  cast  in  my  lot  with  him,  —  at  least 
for  a  week. 

But  the  monks  never  got  into  a  cosier  nook  than  the 
Convent  of  the  Camaldoli.  That  also  is  suppressed:  its 
gardens,  avenues,  colonnaded  walks,  terraces,  buildings, 
half  in  ruins.  It  is  the  level  surface  of  a  hill,  sheltered 
on  the  east  by  higher  peaks,  and  on  the  north  by  the 
more  distant  range  of  Great  St.  Angelo,  across  the  val- 
ley, and  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinarily  fertile  plots 
of  ground  I  ever  saw.  The  rich  ground  responds  gener- 
ously to  the  sun.  I  should  like  to  have  seen  the  abbot 
\vho  grew  on  this  fat  spot.  The  workmen  were  busy  in  • 
the  garden,  spading  and  pruning. 

A  group  of  wild,  half-naked  children  came  about  us 


246  MONKISH  PERCHES. 

begging,  as  we  sat  upon  the  walls  of  the  terrace,  —  the 
terrace  which  overhangs  the  busy  plain  below,  and  which 
commands  the  entire,  varied,  nooky  promontory,  and  the 
two  bays.  And  these  children,  insensible  to  beauty,  want 
centesimi ! 

In  the  rear  of  the  church  are  some  splendid  specimens 
of  the  umbrella-like  Italian  pine.  Here  we  found,  also, 
a  pretty  little  ruin,  —  it  might  be  Greek  and  it  might  be 
Druid  for  any  thing  that  appeared,  —  ivy-clad,  and  sug- 
gesting a  religion  older  than  that  of  the  convent.  To 
the  east  we  look  into  a  fertile,  terraced  ravine ;  and 
beyond  to  a  precipitous  brown  mountain,  which  shows 
a  sharp  outline  against  the  sky ;  half-way  up  are  nests 
of  towns,  white  houses,  churches,  and  above,  creeping 
along  the  slope,  the  thread  of  an  ancient  road,  with 
stone  arches  at  intervals,  as  old  as  Cajsar. 

We  descend,  skirting  for  some  distance  the  monastery 
walls,  over  which  patches  of  ivy  hang  like  green  shawls. 
There  are  flowers  in  profusion,  —  scented  violets,  daisies, 
dandelions,  and  crocuses,  large  and  of  the  richest  vari- 
ety, with  orange  pistils,  and  stamens  purple  and  violet, 
the  back  of  every  alternate  leaf  exquisitely  pencilled. 

We  descend  into  a  continuous  settlement,  past  shrines, 
past  brown,  sturdy  men  and  handsome  girls  working  in 
the  vineyards;  we  descend  —  but  words  express  noth- 
ing —  into  a  wonderful  ravine,  a  sort  of  refined  Swiss 
scene,  —  high,  bare  steps  of  rock  butting  over  a  chasm, 
ruins,  old  walls,  vines,  flowers.  The  very  spirit  of  peace 
is  here,  and  it  is  not  disturbed  by  the  sweet  sound  of 
bells  echoed  in  the  passes.  On  narrow  ledges  of  pre- 
cipices, aloft  in  the  air  where  it  would  seem  that  a  bird 
could  scarcely  light,  we  distinguish  the  forms  of  men 
and  women ;  and  their  voices  come  down  to  us.  They 
are  peasants  cutting  grass,  every  spire  of  which  is  too 
precious  to  waste. 

We  descend,  and  pass  by  a  house  on  a  knoll,  and  a 
terrace  of  olives  extending  along  the  road  in  front.  Half 
a  dozen  children  come  to  the  road  to  look  at  us  as  we 


MOXKISII  PERCHES.  247 

approach,  ami  thru  scamper  back  to  the  house  in  fear, 
tumbling  over  each  other  and  shout  inir.  the,  eldest  </ir\ 
making  jiood  her  escape  with  the  baby.  My  companion 
swings  his  liat.  and  cries,  *'  Hullo,  baby  !  "  And  when  we 
lia\e  passed  the  iiate,  and  are  under  the  wall,  the  whole 
r  c_rLH'd,  brown-skinned  troop  scurry  out  upon  the .terrace, 
and  run  alouu,  calling  after  us,  in  perfect  English,  ag 
lon^as  vre  keep  in  sight,  "  Hullo,  baby ! M  "Hullo,  baby  1" 

'J'he  next  traveller  who  u<>es  that  way  will  no  doubt  be 
hailed  by  the  quick-witted  natives  with  this  salutation ; 
and,  if  he  is  of  a  philological  turn,  he  will  probably  ben- 
efit his  mind  by  running  the  phrase  back  to  its  ultimate 
Greek  roots. 


A  DRY  TIME. 

FOB,  three  years,  once  upon  a  time,  it  did  not  rain  in 
Sorrento.  Not  a  drop  out  of  the  clouds  for  three 
years,  an  Italian  lady  here,  born  in  Ireland,  assures  me. 
If  there  was  an  occasional  shower  on  the  Piano  during 
all  that  drought,  I  have  the  confidence  in  her  to  think 
that  she  would  not  spoil  the  story  by  noticing  it. 

The  conformation  of  the  hills  encircling  the  plain 
would  be  likely  to  lead  any  shower  astray,  and  discharge 
it  into  the  sea,  with  whatever  good  intentions  it  may 
have  started  down  the  promontory  for  Sorrento.  I  can 
see  how  these  sharp  hills  would  tear  the  clouds  asunder, 
and  let  out  all  their  water,  while  the  people  in  the  plain 
below  watched  them  with  longing  eyes.  But  it  can  rain 
in  Sorrento.  Occasionally  the  north-east  wind  comes 
down  with  whirling,  howling  fury,  as  if  it  would  scoop 
villages  and  orchards  out  of  the  little  nook ;  and  the 
rain,  riding  on  the  whirlwind,  pours  in  drenching  floods. 
At  such  times  1  hear  the  beat  of  the  waves  at  the  foot 
of  the  rock,  and  feel  like  a  prisoner  on  an  island.  Eden 
would  not  be  Eden  in  a  rain-storm. 

The  drought  occurred  just  after  the  expulsion  of  the 
Bourbons  from  Naples,  and  many  think  on  account  of  it. 
There  is  this  to  be  said  in  favor  of  the  Bourbons :  that  a 
dry  time  never  had  occurred  while  they  reigned,  —  a 
statement  in  which  all  good  Catholics  in  Sorrento  will 
concur.  As  the  drought  went  on,  almost  all  the  wells  in 
the  place  dried  up,  except  that  of  the  Tramontane  and 
248 


A  DRY  TIME.  249 

til-'  one  in  the  suppressed  convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart, — 
1  think  that  is  its  name. 

It  is  n  rambling  pile  of  old  buildings,  in  the  centre  of 
the  town,  with  a  court-yard  in  the  middle1,  and  in  it  a 
deep  well,  boring  down  1  know  not  how  far  into  the  rock, 
and  always  full  of  cold,  sweet  water.  The  nuns  have  all 
»r<>n e  now;  and  J  look  in  vain  up  at  the,  narrow  slits  in 
the  masonry,  which  served  them  for  windows,  for  the 
glance  of  a  worldly  or  a  pious  eye.  The  poor  people  of 
Sorrento,  when  the  public  wells  and  fountains  had  gone 
dry,  used  to  come  and  draw  at  the  Tramontane  :  but  they 
were  not  allowed  to  go  to  the  well  of  the  convent,  —  tha 
gates  were  closed.  Why  the  Government  shut  them  I 
cannot  see:  perhaps  it  knew  nothing  of  it,  and  some 
stupid  official  took  the  pompous  responsibility.  The  peo- 
ple Crumbled,  and  cursed  the  Government;  and,  in  their 
simplicity,  probably  never  took  any  steps  to  revoke  the 
prohibitory  law.  No  doubt,  as  the  Government  had 
caused  the  drought,  it  was  all  ot  a  piece,  the  good  rustics 
thought. 

For  the  Government  did  indirectly  occasion  the  dry 
spell.  I  have  the  information  from  the  Italian  lady  of 
whom  I  have  spoken.  Among  the  first  steps  of  the  new 
Government  of  Italy  was  the  suppression  of  the  useless 
convents  and  nunneries.  This  one  at  Sorrento  early 
came  under  the  ban.  It  always  seemed  to  me  almost 
a  pit)"  to  rout  out  this  asylum  of  praying  and  charitable 
women,  whose  occupation  was  the  encouragement  of 
beggary  and  idleness  in  others,  but  whose*  pr;;yers  wen; 
constant,  and  whose  charities  to  the  sick  of  the  little 
city  were  many.  If  they  never  were  of  much  good  to 
the  community,  it  was  a  pleasure,  to  have  such  a  sweet 
little  hive  in  the  centre  of  it;  and  I  doubt  not  that  the 
simple  people  felt  a  genuine  satisfaction,  as  they  walked 
around  the  high  walls,  in  believing  that  pure  prayers 
within  were  put  up  for  them  night  and  day ;  and  espe- 
cially when  they  waked  at  night,  and  heard  the  bell  of 
the  convent,  and  knew  that  at  that  moment  some  faith- 


250  A  DRY  TIME. 

ful  soul  kept  her  vigils,  and  chanted  prayers  for  them 
and  all  the  world  besides;  and  they  slept  the  sounder  for 
it  thereafter.  I  confess,  that  if  one  is  helped  by  vicari- 
ous prayer,  I  would  rather  trust  a  convent  of  devoted 
women  (though  many  of  them  are  ignorant,  and  some 
of  them  are  worldly,  and  none  are  fair  to  see)  to  pray 
for  me,  than  some  of  the  houses  of  coarse  monks  which  I 
have  seen. 

But  the  order  came  down  from  Naples  to  pack  off  all 
the  nuns  of  the  Sacred  Heart  on  a  day  named,  to  close 
up  the  gates  of  the  nunnery,  and  hang  a  flaming  sword 
outside.  The  nuns  were  to  be  pulled  up  by  the  roots,  so 
to  say,  on  the  day  specified,  and  without  postponement, 
and  to  be  transferred  to  a  house  prepared  for  them  at 
Massa,  a  few  miles  down  the  promontory,  and  several 
hundred  feet  nearer  heaven.  Sorrento  was  really  in 
mourning :  it  went  about  in  grief.  It  seemed  as  if  some- 
thing sacrilegious  were  about  to  be  done.  It  was  the 
intention  of  the  whole  town  to  show  its  sense  of  it  in 
some  way. 

The  day  of  removal  came,  and  it  rained !  It  poured  : 
the  water  came  down  in  sheets,  in  torrents,  in  deluges  ; 
it  came  down  with  the  wildest  tempest  of  many  a  year. 
I  think,  from  accurate  reports  of  those  who  witnessed  it, 
that  the  beginning  of  the  great  Deluge  was  only  a  moist- 
ure compared  to  this.  To  turn  the  poor  women  out  of 
doors  such  a  day  as  this,  was  unchristian,  barbarous, 
impossible.  Everybody  who  had  a  shelter  was  shivering 
in-doors.  But  the  officials  were  inexorable.  In  the 
order  for  removal,  nothing  was  said  about  postponement 
on  account  of  weather;  and  go  the  nuns  must. 

And  go  they  did ;  the  whole  town  shuddering  at  the 
impiety  of  it,  but  kept  from  any  demonstration  by  the 
tempest.  Carriages  went  round  to  the  convent ;  and 
the  women  were  loaded  into  them,  packed  into  them, 
carried  and  put  in,  if  they  were  too  infirm  to  go  them- 
selves. They  were  driven  away,  cross  and  wet  and  be- 
draggled. They  found  their  dwelling  on  the  hill  not 


A  DRY  TIME.  251 

half  prepared  for  them.  leaking  ami  cold  ami   die, 
They  experience  1  very  nui^li  treatment,  it'  I   ean  eredit 
my  informant,  who  says  >he  liates  the   Government,  ant1 
-would  not  even   look   out   ol'  her  lattice   that  day  to   see 
the  earria-j.es  drive  pa>t. 

And  when  tin1  Lady  Superior  was  driven  away  from 
the  uate,  she  said  to  the  oflicials,  and  tin;  few  faithful 
attendants,  prophesying  in  the  midst  of  the  rain  that 
poured  about  her,  — 

*•  The  day  will  eoine  shortly,  when  you  will  want  rain, 
and  shall  not  have  it  ;  and  you  will,  pray  for  my  return." 

And  it  did  not  rain,  from  that  day  for  three  years. 
And  the  simple  people  thought  of  the  good  Superior, 
whose  departure  hail  been  in  such  a  delude,  and  who 
had  taken  away  with  her  all  the  moisture  of  the  land; 
and  thev  did  pray  lor  her  return,  and  helieved  that  the 
gates  of  heaven  would  he  again  opened  if  only  the  nun- 
nery were  repeopled.  But  the  Government  could  not 
see  the  connection  between  convents  and  the  theory  of 
storms,  and  the  remnant  of  pious  women  was  permitted 
to  remain  in  their  lodgings  at  Massa.  Perhaps  the 
Government  thought  they  could,  if  they  bore  no  malice, 
pray  as  ctfectually  for  rain  there  as  anywhere. 

I  do  not  know,  said  my  informant,  that  the  curse  of 
the  Lady  Superior  had  any  thing  to  do  with  the  drought; 
but  man/  think  it  had ;  and  those  are  the  facts. 


CHILDREN   OF  THE   SUN. 


E  common  people  of  this  region  are  nothing  but 
1  children  ;  and  ragged,  dirty,  and  poor  as  they  are, 
apparently  as  happy,  to  speak  idiomatically,  as  the  day 
is  long.  It  takes  very  little  to  please  them  ;  and  their 
easily-excited  mirth  is  contagious.  It  is  very  rare  that 
one  gets  a  surly  return  to  a  salutation  ;  and,  if  one  shows 
the  least  good-nature,  his  greeting  is  met  with  the  most 
jolly  return  The  boatman  hauling  in  his  net  sings; 
the  brown  girl,  whom  we  meet  descending  a  steep  path 
in  the  hills,  with  an  enormous  bag  or  basket  of  oranges 
on  her  head,  or  a  building-stone  under  which  she  stands 
as  erect  as  a  pillar,  sings  ;  and,  if  she  asks  for  something, 
there  is  a  merry  twinkle  in  her  eye,  that  says  she  hardly 
expects  money,  but  only  puts  in  a  "  beg  "  at  a  venture, 
because  it  is  the  fashion  ;  the  workmen  clipping  the 
olive-trees  sing;  the  urchins,  who  dance  about  the 
foreigner  in  the  street,  vocalize  their  petitions  for  un  po 
rii  moneta  in  a  tuneful  manner,  and  beg  more  in  a  spirit 
of  deviltry  than  with  any  expectation  of  gain.  When 
I  see  how  hard  the  peasants  labor,  what  scraps  and 
vegetable  odds  and  ends  they  eat,  and  in  what  wretched, 
dark,  and  smoke-dried  apartments  they  live,  I  wonder 
they  are  happy;  but  I  suppose  it  is  the  all-nourishing 
him  and  ihe  equable  climate  that  do  the  business  for 
them.  They  have  few  artificial  wants,  and  no  uneasy 
expectation,  —  bred  by  the  reading  of  books  and  news- 
papers, —  that  any  thing  is  going  to  happen  in  the 
world,  or  that  any  change  is  possible.  Their  fruit-trees 
252 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  SUN.  253 

yield  abundantly  year  after  year;  their  little  patche<  (if 
rich  earth,  on  the  built-up  terraces  and   in   the  en 
of  the  rocks,  produce  fourfold.     The  sun  does  it  all. 

Kvcrv  walk  that  we  take  here  witli  open  mind  and 
cheerful  heart  is  sure  to  he  an  advent  lire.  Only  yester- 
day, we  were  coming  down  a  hrancli  of  the  great,  gorge 
which  splits  the  plain  in  two.  On  one  side  the  path  is 
a  high  wall,  with  garden  trees  overhanging.  On  the 
other,  a  stone,  parapet;  and  below,  in  the  bed  of  the 
ravine,  an  orange  orchard.  Beyond  rises  a  precipice; 
and,  at  its  foot,  men  and  hoys  were  quarrying  stone, 
v\hich  workmen  raised  a  couple  of  hundred  feet  to  the 
platform  above  with  a  windlass.  As  we  came  along,  a 
handsome  girl  on  the  height  had  just  taken  on  her  head 
a  large  block  of  stone,  which  I  should  not  care  to  lift, 
to  carry  to  a  pile  in  the  rear;  and  she  stopped  to  look 
at  us.  ^re  stopped,  and  looked  at  her.  This  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  men  and  boys  in  the  quarry  below, 
who  .stopped  work,  and  set  up  a  cry  for  a  little  money. 
AVe  laughed,  and  responded  in  English.  The  windlass 
ceased  to  turn.  The  workmen  on  the  height  joined  in 
the  conversation.  A  grizzly  beggar  hobbled  up,  and  held 
out  his  greasy  cap.  We  nonplussed  him  by  extending 
our  hats,  and  beseeching  him  for  just  a  little  something. 
Some  passers  on  the  road  paused,  and  looked  on,  amused 
at  the  transaction.  A  boy  appeared  on  the  high  wall, 
and  began  to  beg.  I  threatened  to  shoot  him  with  my 
-walking-stick,  whereat  he  ran  nimbly  along  the  wall  in 
terror.  The  workmen  shouted;  and  this  started  up  a 
couple  of  yellow  dogs,  which  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
wall,  and  barked  violently.  The  girl,  alone  calm  in  the 
confusion,  stood  stock  still  under  her  enormous  load, 
looking  at  us.  We  swung  our  hats,  and  hurrahed.  The 
crowd  replied  from  above,  below,  and  around  us;  shout- 
ing, laughing,  singing,  until  the  whole  little  valley  was 
vocal  with  a  gale  of  merriment,  and  all  about  nothing. 
The  beggar  whined  ;  the  spectators  around  us  laughed  ; 
and  the  whole  population  was  aroused  into  a  jolly  mood. 
22 


254  CHILDREN  OF  THE  SUN. 

Fancy  such  a  merry  hullaballoo  in  America.  For  ten 
minutes,  while  the  funny  row  was  going  on,  the  girl 
never  moved,  having  forgotten  to  go  a  few  steps,  and 
deposit  her  load ;  and,  when  we  disappeared  round  a 
bend  of  the  path,  she  was  still  watching  us,  smiling  and 
statuesque. 

As  we  descend,  we  come  upon  a  group  of  little  chil- 
dren seated  about  a  door-step,  black-eyed,  chubby  little 
urchins,  who  are  cutting  oranges  into  little  bits,  and 
playing  "  party,"  as  children  do  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic.  The  instant  we  stop  to  speak  to  them,  the 
skinny  hand  of  an  old  woman  is  stretched  out  of  a  win- 
dow just  above  our  heads,  the  wrinkled  palm  itching  for 
money.  The  mother  comes  forward  out  of  the  house, 
evidently  pleased  with  our  notice  of  the  children,  and 
show*  us  the  baby  in  her  arms.  At  once  we  are  on  good 
terms  with  the  whole  family.  The  woman  sees  that 
there  is  nothing  impertinent  in  our  cursory  inquiry  into 
her  domestic  concerns,  but,  I  fancy,  knows  that  we  are 
genial  travellers,  with  human  sympathies.  So  the  people 
universally  are  not  quick  to  suspect  any  imposition,  and 
meet  frankness  with  frankness,  and  good-nature  with 
good-nature,  in  a  simple-hearted,  primeval  manner.  If 
they  stare  at  us  from  doorway  and  balcony,  or  come  and 
stand  near  us  when  we  sit  reading  or  writing  by  the 
shore,  it  is  only  a  childlike  curiosity,  and  they  are  quite 
unconscious  of  any  breach  of  good  manners.  In  fact,  I 
think  travellers  have  not  much  to  say  in  the  matter  of 
staring.  I  only  pray  that  we  Americans  abroad  may 
remember  that  we  are  in  the  presence  of  older  races, 
and  conduct  ourselves  with  becoming  modesty,  remem- 
bering always,  that  we  were  not  born  in  Britain. 

Very  likely  I  am  in  error ;  but  it  has  seemed  to  me  that 
even  the  funerals  here  are  not  so  gloomy  as  in  other 
places.  I  have  looked  in  at  the  churches  when  they  are 
in  progress,  now  and  then,  and  been  struck  with  the  gen- 
eral good  feeling  of  the  occasion.  The  real  mourners,  I 
could  not  always  distinguish;  but  the  seats  would  be 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  SUN.  255 

filial  with  a  motley  gathering  of  (lie  idle  and  the  ragged, 
who  seemed  to  enjoy  the  show  and  the  ceremony,  (hi 
one  occasion,  it  was  the  obsequies  of  :m  ollieer  in  tlio 
army,  (inardinir  the  gilded  casket,  which  stood  upon  \\ 
raised  platform  before  the  altar,  were  lour  soldiers  in  uni- 
form. Mass  was  bcin^  said  and  sunn-:  and  a  priest,  was 
playing  the  organ.  The  church  was  li-jht  and  cheerful, 
and  pervaded  by  a  pleasant  bustle.  Ragged  boys  and 
lieu-jars,  :ind  dirty  children  and  dogs,  went  and  came, 
wherever  they  chose  about  the  unoccupied  spaces  of  the 
church.  The  hired  mourners,  who  are  numerous  in  pro- 
portion to  the  rank  of  the  decca>cd.  were  clad  in  white 
cotton,  —  a  sort  of  night-gown  put  on  over  the  ordinary 
clothes,  with  a  hood  of  the  same  drawn  tightly  over  the 
face,  in  which  slits  were  cut  for  the  eyes  and  mouth. 
Some  of  them  were  seated  on  benches  near  the  front; 
others  were  wandering  about  amoii'j:  the,  pillars,  disap- 
pearing in  the  sacristy,  and  re-appearing  with  an  aimless 
aspect,  altogether  conducting  themselves  as  if  it  were  a 
holiday,  and,  if  there  was  any  thing  they  did  enjoy,  it  was 
mourning  at  other  people's  expense.  They  laughed  and 
talked  with  each  other  in  excellent  spirits ;  and  one  varlet 
near  the  coffin,  who  had  slipped  off  his  mask,  winked  at 
me  repeatedly,  as  if  to  inform  me  that  it  was  not  his 
funeral.  A  masquerade  might  have  been  more  gloomy 
and  depressing. 


SAINT  ANTONINO. 

fTlHE  most  serviceable  saint  whom  I  know  is  St.  Anto- 
1  nino.  He  is  the  patron  saint  of  the  good  town  of 
Sorrento  ;  he  is  the  good  genius  of  all  sailors  and  fisher- 
men ;  and  he  has  a  humbler  office,  —  that  of  protector  of 
the  pigs.  On  his  day  the  pigs  are  brought  into  the  pub- 
lic square  to  be  blessed ;  and  this  is  one  reason  why  the 
pork  of  Sorrento  is  reputed  so  sweet  and  wholesome. 
The  saint  is  the  friend,  and,  so  to  say,  companion  of  the 
common  people.  They  seem  to  be  all  fond  of  him,  and 
there  is  little  of  fear  in  their  confiding  relation.  His 
humble  origin  and  plebeian  appearance  have  something 
to  do  with  his  popularity,  no  doubt.  There  is  nothing 
awe-inspiring  in  the  brown  stone  figure,  battered  and 
cracked,  that  stands  at  one  corner  of  the  bridge,  over  the 
chasm  at  the  entrance  of  the  city.  He  holds  a  crosier  in 
one  hand,  and  raises  the  other,  with  fingers  uplifted,  in 
act  of  benediction.  If  his  face  is  an  indication  of  his 
character,  he  had  in  him  a  mixture  of  robust  good-nature 
with  a  touch  of  vulgarity,  and  could  rough  it  in  a  jolly 
manner  with  fishermen  and  peasants.  He  may  nave 
appeared  to  better  advantage  when  he  stood  on  top 
of  the  massive  old  city  gate,  which  the  present  Govern- 
ment, with  the  impulse  of  a  Vandal,  took  down  a  few 
years  ago.  The  demolition  had  to  be  accomplished  in  the 
night,  under  a  guard  of  soldiers,  so  indignant  were  tho 
populace.  At  that  time  the  homely  saint  was  deposed  ; 
and  he  wears  now,  I  think,  a  snubbed  and  cast-aside 
aspect.  Perhaps  he  is  dearer  to  the  people  than  ever ; 
256 


SAINT  ANTONIXO.  257 

and  I  confi-ss  that  I  like  him  much  better  than  many 
grander  saints,  in  slum-.  1  ha\c  seen  in  more  conspicuous 
places.  If  ever  I  am  in  rough  water  and  luiil  weather,  I 
hope  he  will  not  take  amiss  any  thing  I  have  here  written 
about  him. 

Sunday,  and  it  happened  to  be  St.  Valentine's  also, 
was  the  invar  fete-day  of  St.  Antonino.  Early  in  the 
morning  there  was  a  great  clanging  of  hells;  and  the 
ceremony  of  the.  blessing  of  tlie  pi^s  took  place,  1  lieard, 
hut  I  was  not  abroad  early  enough  to  see  it,  —  a  la/im-ss 
for  which  I  fancy  I  need  not  apologize,  as  the  Catholic 
is  known  to  he  an  earlier  religion  than  the  Protestant. 
When  1  did  go  out,  the  streets  were,  thronged  with  peo- 
ple, the  counlry-lblk  Iming  come  in  from  miles  around. 
The  church  of  the  patron  saint  was  the  great  centre  of 
attraction.  The  blank  walls  of  the  little  square  in  front, 
and  ot  the  narrow  streets  near,  were  hung  with  cheap  and 
highly-colored  lithographs  of  sacred  subjects,  for  sale; 
tables  and  booths  were  set  up  in  every  available  space 
for  the  traffic  in  pre-Raphaelite  gingerbread,  molasses 
candy,  strings  of  dried  nuts,  pine-cone  and  pumpkin  seeds, 
scarfs,  boots  and  shoes,  and  all  sorts  of  trumpery.  One 
dealer  had  pre-empted  a  large  space  on  the  pavement, 
"where  he  had  spread  out  an  assortment  of  bits  of  old  iron, 
nails,  pieces  of  steel  traps,  and  various  fragments  \\hich 
might  be  useiul  to  the  peasants.  The  press  was  so  great, 
that  it  was  difficult  to  get  through  it ;  but  the  crowd  was 
a  picturesque  one,  and  in  the  highest  good-humor.  The 
occasion  was  a  sort  of  Fourth  'of  July,  but  without  its 
worry  and  powder  and  flowing  bars. 

The  spectacle  of  the  day  was  the  procession,  bearing 
the  silver  image  of  the  saint  through  the  streets.  I 
think  there  could  never  be  any  thing  finer  or  more  impres- 
sive; at  least,  1  like  these  little  fussv  provincial  displays, 
—  these  tag-rags  and  ends  of  grandeur,  in  which  all  thu 
populace  devoutly  believe,  and  at  which  thev  are  lost  in 
wonder,  —  better  than  those  imposing  ceremonies  at  the 
capital,  in  which  nobody  believes.  There  was  first  i1 
22* 


258  SAINT  ANTONINO. 

band  of  musicians,  walking  in  more  or  less  disorder,  but 
blowing  away  with  great  zeal,  so  that  they  could  be  heard 
amid  the  clangor  of  bells  the  peals  of  which  reverberate 
so  deafeningly  between  the  high  houses  of  these  narrow 
streets.  Then  follow  boys  in  white,  and  citizens  in  black 
and  white  robes,  carrying  huge  silken  banners,  triangular 
like  sea-pennants,  and  splendid  silver  crucifixes  which 
flash  in  the  sun.  Then  come  ecclesiastics,  walking  with 
stately  step,  and  chanting  in  loud  and  pleasant  unison. 
These  are  followed  by  nobles,  among  whom  I  recognize, 
with  a  certain  satisfaction,  two  descendants  of  Tasso, 
whose  glowing  and  bigoted  soul  may  rejoice  in  the  devo- 
tion of  his  posterity,  who  help  to  bear  to-day  the  gilded 
platform  upon  which  is  the  solid  silver  image  of  the  saint. 
The  good  old  bishop  walks  humbly  in  the  rear,  in  full 
canonical  rig,  with  crosier  and  mitre,  his  rich  robes 
upborne  by  priestly  attendants,  his  splendid  footman  at 
a  respectful  distance,  and  his  roomy  carriage  not  far 
behind. 

The  procession  is  well  spread  out  and  long;  all  its 
members  carry  lighted  tapers,  a  good  many  of  which  are 
not  lighted,  having  gone  out  in  the  wind.  As  I  squeeze 
into  a  shallow  doorway  to  let  the  cortege  pass,  I  am  sorry 
to  say  that  several  of  the  young  fellows  in  white  gowns 
tip  me  the  wink,  and  even  smile  in  a  knowing  fashion, 
as  if  it  were  a  mere  lark,  after  all,  and  that  the  saint  must 
know  it.  But  not  so  thinks  the  paternal  bishop,  who 
waves  a  blessing,  which  'I  catch  in  the  flash  of  the  enor- 
mous emerald  on.  his  right  hand.  The  procession  ends, 
where  it  started,  in  the  patron's  church ;  and  there  his 
image  is  set  up  under  a  gorgeous  canopy  of  crimson  and 
gold,  to  hear  high  mass,  and  some  of  the  choicest  solos, 
choruses,  and  bravuras  from  the  operas. 

In  the  public  square  I  find  a  gaping  and  wondering 
crowd  of  rustics,  collected  about  one  of  the  mountebanks 
whose  trade  is  not  peculiar  to  any  country.  This  one 
might  be  a  clock-peddler  from  Connecticut.  He  is 
mounted  in  a  one-seat  veltura,  and  his  horse  is  quietly 


SAINT  ANTONINO.  259 

rating  his  dinner  out  of  a  bag  tied  to  his  nose.  There 
is  nothing  unusual  iu  the  fellow's  dress ;  he  wears  ;\ 
shiny  silk  hat.  and  has  one  of  those  grave  faces  which 
would  he  merry  if  their  owner  were  not  con-cious  (if 
serious  business  on  hand.  On  the  driver's  perch  he  fore 
him  are  arranged  his  attractions,  —  a  box  of  notions,  a 
grinning  skull,  with  full  teeth  and  jaws  that  work  on 
hinges,  some  vials  of  red  liquid,  and  a  closed  jar  contain- 
ing a  most  disagreeable  anatomical  preparation.  This 
latter  he  holds  up  and  displays,  turning  it  about  occa- 
sionally in  an  admiring  manner.  He  is  discoursing,  all  the 
time,  in  the  most  voluble  Italian.  lie  has  an  ointment, 
wonderfully  efficacious  for  rheumatism  and  every  sort  of 
bruise:  he  pulls  up  his  sleeve,  and  anoints  his  arm  with 
it,  binding  it  up  with  a  strip  of  paper;  for  the  simplest 
operation  must  be  explained  to  these  grown  children. 
lie  also  pulls  teeth,  with  an  ease  and  expedition  hitherto 
unknown,  and  is  in  no  want  of  patients  among  this  open- 
mouthed  crowd.  One  sufferer  after  another  climbs  up 
into  the  wagon,  and  goes  through  the  operation  in  the 
public  gaze.  A  stolid,  good-natured  hind  mounts  the  seat. 
The  dentist  examines  his  mouth,  and  finds  the  offending 
tooth.  He  then  turns  to  the  crowd,  and  explains  the 
case.  He  takes  a  little  instrument  that  is  neither  forceps 
nor  turnkey,  stands  upon  the  seat,  seizes  the  man's  nose, 
and  jerks  his  head  round  between  his  knees,  pulling 
his  rnouth  open  (there  is  nothing  that  opens  the  month 
quicker  than  a  sharp  upward  jerk  of  the  nose)  with  a 
rude  jollity  that  sets  the  spectators  in  a  roar.  Down  he 
goes  into  the  cavern,  and  digs  away  for  a  quarter  of  a, 
minute,  the  man  the  while  as  immovable  as  a  stone 
imaiie,  when  he  holds  up  the  bloody  tooth.  The  patient 
still  persists  in  sitting  with  his  mouth  stretched  open  to 
its  widest  limit,  waiting  lor  the  operation  to  begin,  and 
will  only  close  the  orifice  when  he  is  well  shaken  and 
shown  the  tooth.  The  dentist  gives  him  some  yellow 
liquid  to  hold  in  his  mouth,  which  the  man  insists  on 
swallowing,  wets  a  handkerchief  and  washes  his  face, 


260  SAINT  ANTONINO. 

roughly  rubbing  his  nose  the  wrong  way,  and  lets  him 
go.  Every  step  of  the  process  is  eagerly  watched  by 
the  delighted  spectators. 

He  is  succeeded  by  a  woman,  who  is  put  through  the 
same  heroic  treatment,  and  exhibits  like  fortitude.  And 
so  they  come ;  and  the  dentist  after  every  operation 
waves  the  extracted  trophy  high  in  air,  and  jubilates 
as  if  he  had  won  another  victory,  pointing  to  the  stone 
statue  yonder,  and  reminding  them  that  this  is  the 
glorious  day  of  St.  Antonino.  But  this  is  not  all  that 
this  man  of  science  does.  He  has  the  genuine  elixir 
d'amour,  love-philters  and  powders  which  never  fail  in 
their  effects.  I  see  the  bashful  girls  and  the  sheepish 
swains  come  slyly  up  to  the  side  of  the  wagon,  and  ex- 
change their  hard-earned  francs  for  the  hopeful  prepara- 
tion. O  my  brown  beauty,  with  those  soft  eyes  and 
cheeks  of  smothered  fire,  you  have  no  need  of  that  red 
philter !  What  a  simple,  childlike  folk  !  The  shrewd 
fellow  in  the  wagon  is  one  of  a  race  as  old  as  Thebes  and 
as  new  as  Porkopolis ;  his  brazen  face  is  older  than  the 
invention  of  bronze,  but  I  think  he  never  had  to  do  with 
a  more  credulous  crowd  than  this.  The  very  cunning  in 
the  face  of  the  peasants  is  that  of  the  fox ;  it  is  a  sort  of 
instinct,  and  not  an  intelligent  suspicion. 

This  is  Sunday  in  Sorrento,  under  the  blue  sky.  These 
peasants,  who  are  fooled  by  the  mountebank  and  at- 
tracted by  the  piles  of  adamantine  gingerbread,  do  not 
forget  to  crowd  the  church  of  the  saint  at  vespers,  and 
kneel  there  in  humble  faith ;  while  the  choir  sings  the 
Agnus  Dei,  and  the  priests  drone  the  service.  Are  they 
so  different,  then,  from  other  people?  They  have  an 
idea  on  Capri  that  England  is  such  another  island,  only 
not  so  pleasant ;  that  all  Englishmen  are  rich,  and  con- 
stantly travel  to  escape  the  dreariness  at  home;  and 
that,  if  they  are  not  absolutely  mad,  they  are  all  a  little 
queer.  It  was  a  fancy  prevalent  in  Hamlet's  day.  We 
had  the  English  service  in  the  Villa  Nardi  in  the  even- 
ing. There  are  some  Englishmen  staying  here,  of  the 


SAINT  ANTONINO.  261 


class  one  finds  in  all  tin1,  sunny  spots  of  Kurope, 
and  growling,  in  search  of  sonic  elixir  that  shall  bring 
back  ymitli  and  enjoyment.  They  seem  divided  in  mind 
between  tin-  attractions  of  the  equable  climate,  of  this 
region,  and  the  fear  of  the  gout  which  lurks  in  the  unfcr- 
incntcd  wine.  One  cannot  be  too  grateful  to  the  sturdy 
islanders  lor  carrying  their  prayers,  like  their  drum-heat, 
all  round  the  glohe  ;  and  I  was  much  edified  that  night, 
as  the  reading  went  on,  by  a  row  of  rather  battered  men 
of  the  world,  who  stood  in  line  on  one  side  of  the  room, 
and  took  their  prayers  with  a  certain  British  fortitude, 
as  it'  they  were  conscious  of  performing  a  constitutional 
duty,  and  helping  by  the  act  to  uphold  the  majesty  of 
En  >lish  institutions. 


PUNTA  BELLA  CAMPANELLA. 

r  I  THERE  is  always  a  mild  excitement  about  mount- 
I  ing  donkeys  in  the  morning  here  for  an  excursion 
among  the  hills.  The  warm  sun  pouring  into  the  gar- 
den, the  smell  of  oranges,  the  stimulating  air,  the  general 
openness  and  freshness,  promise  a  day  of  enjoyment. 
There  is  always  a  doubt  as  to  who  will  go;  generally  a 
donkey  wanting;  somebody  wishes  to  join  the  party  at 
the  last  moment;  there  is  no  end  of  running  up  and 
down  stairs,  calling  from  balconies  and  terraces;  some 
never  ready,  and  some  waiting  below  in  the  sun;  the 
whole  house  in  a  tumult,  drivers  in  a  worry,  and  the 
sleepy  animals  now  and  then  joining  in  the  clatter  with 
a  vocal  performance  that  is  neither  a  trumpet-call  nor  a 
steam-whistle,  but  an  indescribable  noise,  that  begins  in 
agony,  and  abruptly  breaks  down  in  despair.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  get  the  train  in  motion.  The  lady  who  ordered 
Succarina  has  got  a  strange  donkey,  and  Macaroni  has 
on  the  wrong  saddle.  Succarina  is  a  favorite,  the  kind- 
est, easiest,  and  surest-footed  of  beasts,  —  a  diminutive 
animal,  not  bigger  than  a  Friesland  sheep ;  old,  in  fact 
grizzly  with  years,  and  not  unlike  the  aged,  wizened 
little  women  who  are  so  common  here  :  for  beauty  in 
this  region  dries  up;  and  these  handsome  Sorrento  girls, 
if  they  live,  and  almost  everybody  does  live,  have  the 
prospect,  in  their  old  age,  of  becoming  mummies,  with 
parchment  skins.  I  have  heard  of  climates  that  preserve 
female  beauty  ;  this  embalms  it,  only  the  beauty  escapes 
in  the  process.  As  I  was  saying,  Succarina  is  little,  old, 


PUXTA  DI-.I.I.A  C.LVPANELLA.  263 

and  pri/xly;  but  her  heal  is  large,  and  one  mi;ht  hu 
contented  to  hi>  as  wise  ;is  she  looks. 

Tlu1  party  is  at  h-u-ih  mounted,  and  clatters  away 
through  the  narrow  sinvts.  Donkey-riding  is  very  good 
for  people  who  think  they  cannot  walk,  li  looks  \rry 
much  like  riding,  to  a.  spectator;  and  it  deceives  the 
pci-son  undertaking  it  into  an  amount  of  exercise  c<ju:il 
to  walking.  I  have  a  invar  admiration  for  the  donkey 
character.  There  never  was  such  patience  under  wrong 
treatment,  such  return  of  devotion  lor  injury.  Their 
obstinacy,  which  is  so  much  talked  about,  is  only  an 
exercise  of  the  ri'iht  of  private  judgment,  and  an  intel- 
ligent exerci-e  of  it,  no  doubt,  if  we  could  take  thedon- 
kev  point  of  view,  as  so  many  of  us  are  accused  of  doing 
in  other  things.  1  am  certain  of  one  thin;*:  in  any 
larire  excursion  party,  there  will  be  more  obstinate 
people  than  obstinate  donkeys;  and  yet  the  poor  brutes 
jret  all  the  thwacks  and  thumps.  We  are  bound  to-day 
for  the  Punta  della  Campanella,  the  extreme  point  of 
the  promontory,  and  ten  miles  away.  The  path  lies  up 
the  steps  from  the  new  Massa  carriage-road,  now  on,  the 
backbone  of  the  rid^e,  and  now  in  the  recesses  of  the 
broken  country.  What  an  animated  picture  is  the  don- 
keycade,  as  it  mounts  the  steeps,  winding  along  the  zig- 
za-_r>  !  Hear  the  little  bridle-bells  jingling,  the  drivers 
groaning  their  "  a-e-u-jh,  a-e-ugh,"  the  riders  making 
a  merry  din  of  laughter,  and  firing  off  a  fusillade  of 
ejaculations  of  delight  and  wonder. 

The  road  is  between  high  wails;  round  the  sweep  of 
curved  terraces  which  rise  above  and  below  us,  bearing 
the  glistening  olive;  through  glens  and  gullies;  over 
and  under  arches,  vine-grown,  —  how  little  we  make  use 
of  the  arch  at  home  !  —  round  sunny  dells  where  oranire 
orchards  <j;leam  ;  past  shrines,  little  chapels  perched  on 
rocks,  rude  villas  commanding  most  extensive  sweeps 
of  sea  and  shore.  The  almond  trees  are  in  full  bloom, 
every  twig  a  thiek!y-set  spike  of  the  pink  and  white 
bio^ouis  ;  daisies  and  dandelions  are  out ;  the  purple 


264  PUNTA  DELLA  CAMPANELLA. 

crocuses  sprinkle  the  ground,  the  petals 
varied  on -the  reverse  side,  and  the  stamens  of  bright  sal- 
mon color;  the  large  double  anemones  have  come  forth, 
certain  that  it  is  spring  ;  on  the  higher  crags  by  the 
wayside,  the  Mediterranean  heather  has  shaken  out  its 
delicate  flowers,  which  till  the  air  with  a  mild  fragrance ; 
while  blue  violets,  sweet  of  scent  like  the  English,  make 
our  path  a  perfumed  one.  And  this  is  winter. 

We  have  made  a  late  start,  owing  to  the  fact  that 
everybody  is  captain  of  the  expedition,  and  to  the 
Sorrento  infirmity  that  no  one  is  able  to  make  up  his 
mind  about  any  thing.  It  is  one  o'clock  when  we  reach 
a  high  transverse  ridge,  and  find  the  headlands  of  the 
peninsula  rising  before  us,  grim  hills  of  limestone,  one 
of  them  with  the  ruins  of  a  convent  on  top,  and  no 
road  apparent  thither,  and  Capri  ahead  of  us  in  the  sea, 
the  only  bit  of  land  that  catches  any  light ;  for  as  we 
have  journeyed,  the  sky  has  thickened,  the  clouds  of  the 
sirocco  have  come  up  from  the  south ;  there  has  been 
first  a  mist,  and  then  a  fine  rain  ;  the  ruins  on  the  peak 
of  Santa  Costanza  are  now  hid  in  mist.  We  halt  for 
consultation.  Shall  we  go  on  and  brave  a  wetting,  or 
ignominiously  retreat  V  There  are  many  opinions,  but 
few  decided  ones.  The  drivers  declare  that  it  will  be 
a  bad  time.  One  gentleman,  with  an  air  of  decision, 
suggests  that  it  is  best  to  go  on,  or  go  back,  if  we  do  not 
stand  here  and  wait.  The  deaf  lady,  from  near  Dublin, 
being  appealed  to,  says  that,  perhaps,  if  it  is  more 
prudent,  we  had  better  go  back  if  it  is  going  to  rain. 
It  docs  rain.  Water-proofs  are  put  on,  umbrellas  spread, 
backs  turned  to  the  wind ;  and  we  look  like  a  group 
of  explorers  under  adverse  circumstances,  "  silent  on  a 
peak  in  Darien,"  the  donkeys  especially  downcast  and 
dented.  Finally,  as  is  usual  in  life,  a  compromise  pre- 
vails. We  decide  to  continue  for  half  an  hour  longer, 
and  see  what  the  weather  is.  No  sooner  have  we  set 
forward  over  the  brow  of  a  hill  than  it  grows  lighter  on 
the  sea  horizon  in  the  south-west,  the  ruins  on  the  peak 


PUXTA  ni-.U.A   CAMTAM-ILLA.  265 

become  visible.  Capri  is  in  Cull  sunlight.  Tin'  cl-mda 
lilt  more  and  more,  ami  still  h  •inking  ovcrhea  I,  Imt  with 
no  more  rain,  are  like  curtains  gradually  drawn  up, 
opening'  to  n<  a  'j:lnri.ms  vista  of  suii:-hine  and  promise, 
an  illumined,  sparkling,  illimitable  sea,  and  a  bright 
foreground  of  slopes  and  picturesque  rocks,  lie  lore,  the 
halt-hour  is  up,  there  is  no!  one  of  the  party  who  does 
not  claim  to  have  been  the  person  who  insisted  upon 
goin  r  forward. 

We  halt  for  a  moment  to  look  at  Capri, . that  enormous, 
irregular  rock,  raising  its  huje  back  out  of  the  sea,  its 
back  broken  in  the  middle,  with  the  little  village  lor  a 
saddle.  On  the  farther  summit,  above  Anaeapri,  a  piv- 
cipiee  of  two  thousand  feet  sheer  down  to  the  water  on 
the  other  side,  hangs  a  light  cloud.  The  east  elevation, 
whence  the  playful  Tiberius  used  to  amuse  his  given  old 
age  by  casting  his  prisoners  eight  hundred  li-et.  down 
into  the  sea,  has  the  strong  sunlight  on  it;  and  below, 
the  row  of  tooth-like  rocks,  which  are  the  extreme  eastern 
point,  shine  in  a  warm  glow.  We  descend  through  a 
village,  twisting  about  in  its  crooked  streets.  The  in- 
habitants, who  do  not  see  strangers  every  day,  make 
free  to  stare  at  and  comment  on  us,  and  even  laugh  at 
something  that  seems  very  comical  in  our  appearance; 
which  shows  how  ridiculous  are  the  costumes  of  Paris 
and  New  York  in  some  places.  Stalwart  girls,  with 
only  an  apology  for  clothes,  with  bare  legs,  brown  laces, 
and  beautiful  eyes,  stop  in  their  spinning,  holding  the 
distaff  suspended,  while  they  examine  us  at  leisure.  At 
our  left,  as  we  turn  from  the  church  and  its  sunny  piazza, 
where  old  women  sit  and  gabble,  down  the  ravine,  is  a 
snug  village  under  the  mountain  by  the  shore,  with  a 
great,  square,  mediaeval  tower.  On  the  right,  upon 
rocky  points,  are  remains  of  round  towers,  and  temples 
perhaps. 

\Ve  sweep  away  to  the  left  round  tin;  base  of  the  hill, 
Over  ft  difficult  and  Stony  path.      Soon  the  last  dilapidated 
villa  is  passed,  the  last  terrace  and  olive-tree  are  left  be- 
23 


266  PUNT  A  DELL  A  CAMPANELLA. 

hind  ;  and  we  emerge  upon  a  wild,  rocky  slope,  barren 
of  vegetation,  except  little  tufts  of  grass  and  a  sort  of 
lentil ;  a  wide  sweep  of  limestone  strata  set  on  edge, 
and  crumbling  in  the  beat  of  centuries,  rising  to  a  con- 
siderable height  on  the  left.  Our  path  descends  toward 
the  sea,  still  creeping  round  the  end  of  the  promontory. 
Scattered  here  arid  there  over  the  rocks,  like  conies,  are 
peasants,  tending  a  few  lean  cattle,  and  digging  grasses 
from  the  crevices.  The  women  arid  children  are  wild  in 
attire  and  manner,  and  set  up  a  clamor  of  begging  as 
we  pass.  A  group  of  old  hags  begin  beating  a  poor 
child  as  we  approach  to  excite  our  compassion  for  the 
abused  little  object,  and,  draw  out  centimes. 

Walking  ahead  of  the  procession,  which  gets  slowly 
down  the  rugged  path,  I  lose  sight  of  my  companions, 
and  have  the  solitude,  the  sun  on  the  rocks,  the  glisten- 
ing sea,  all  to  myself.  Soon  I  espy  a  man  below  me, 
sauntering  down  among  the  rocks.  He  sees  me  and 
moves  away,  a  solitary  figure.  I  say  solitary ;  and  so  it 
is  in  effect,  although  he  is  leading  a  little  boy,  and  call- 
ing to  his  dog,  which  runs  back  to  bark  at  me.  Is  this 
the  brigand  of  whom  I  have  read,  and  is  he  luring  me 
to  his  haunt  ?  Probably.  I  follow.  He  throws  his  cloak 
about  his  shoulders,  exactly  as  brigands  do  in  the  opera, 
and  loiters  on.  At  last  there  is  the  point  in  sight,  a  gray 
wall  with  blind  arches.  The  man  disappears  through  a 
narrow  archway,  and  I  follow.  Within  is  an  enormous 
square  tower.  I  think  it  was  built  in  Spanish  days,  as 
an  outlook  for  Barbary  pirates.  A  bell  hung  in  it,  which 
was  set  clanging  when  the  white  sails  of  the  robbers 
appeared  to  the  southward ;  and  the  alarm  was  repeated 
up  the  coast,  the  towers  were  manned,  and  the  brown- 
cheeked  girls  flew  away  to  the  hills,  I  doubt  not,  for  the 
touch  of  the  sirocco  was  not  half  so  much  to  be  dreaded 
as  the  rough  importunity  of  a  Saracen  lover.  The  bell 
is  gone  now,  and  no  Moslem  rovers  were  in  sight.  The 
maidens  we  had  just  passed  would  be  safe  if  there  were. 
My  brigand  disappears  round  the  tower ;  and  I  follow 


PUNTA  DELLA  CAMPANELLA.  267 

down  stops,  by  a  white  wall.  ;in<l,  lo  !  a  hoii<e. —  a  red, 
stucco.  BgypUan-looking building,  —  on  tin-  vrrv  ed-je  ,,(- 
tlic  rucks.  The  man  unlocks  a  iloor  audioes  in.  I  CMII- 
sider  this  an  invitation,  and  enter.  On  one  side  of  tlm 
p  i— a^e  a  sleeping-room,  on  the  other  a  kitchen,  not 
sumptuous  quarters;  and  we  come  then  upon  a  pretty 
circular  terrace  ;  and  tlierc,  in  its  glass  case,  is  the  lan- 
tern of  the  point.  My  brigand  is  a  lighthouse  keeper, 
and  welcomes  me  in  a  quiet  way.  glad,  evident Iv.  to  see 
the  i'ace  ot  a  civilized  being.  It  is  very  solitary,  he  says. 
I  should  think  so.  It  is  the  end  of  every  tiling.  Tin* 
Mediterranean  waves  heat  with  a  dull  thud  on  the  worn 
crags  below.  The  rocks  rise  up  to  the  sky  behind. 
There  is  nothing  there  but  the  sun,  an  occasional  sail, 
and  quiet,  petrified  Capri,  three  miles  distant  across  the 
strait.  It  is  an  excellent  place  lor  a  misanthrope  to 
spon d  a  week,  and  get  cured.  There  must  be  a  very 
dispiriting  influence  prevailing  here;  the  keeper  refused 
to  take  any  money,  the  solitary  Italian  we  have  seen  so 
affected. 

We  returned  late.  The  young  moon,  lyini  in  the  lap 
of  the  old  one,  was  superintending  the  brilliant  sunset 
over  Capri,  as  we  passed  the  last  point  commanding  it ; 
and  the  light,  fading  away,  left  us  stumbling  over  the 
rough  path  among  the  hills,  darkened  by  the  high  walls. 
We  were  not  sorry  to  emerge  upon  the  crest  above  the 
Massa  road.  For  there  lay  the  sea,  and  the  plain  of 
Sorrento,  with  its  darkening  groves  and  hundreds  of 
twinkling  lights.  As  we  went  down  the  last  descent, 
the  bells  of  the  town  were  all  ringing,  for  it  was  the  eve 
of  the  fete  of  St.  Antonino. 


CAPRI. 

AP,  signer  ?  Good  day  for  Grott."  Thus  spoke  a 
/  mariner,  touching  his  Phrygian  cap.  The  people 
here  abbreviate  all  names.  With  them  Massa  is  Mas, 
Meta  is  Met,  Capri  becomes  Cap,  the  Grotta  Azzurra  is 
reduced  familiarly  to  Grott,  and  they  even  curtail  musical 
Sorrento  into  Serent. 

Shall  we  go  to  Capri  ?  Should  we  dare  return  to  the 
great  Republic,  und  own  that  we  had  not  been  into  the 
Blue  Grotto  V  We  like  to  climb  the  steeps  here,  espe- 
cially towards  Massa,  and  look  at  Capri.  I  have  read 
in  some  book  that  it  used  to  be  always  visible  from  Sor- 
rento. But  now  the  promontory  has  risen,  the  Capo  di 
Sorrento  has  thrust  out  its  rocky  spur  with  its  ancient 
Roman  masonry,  and  the  island  itself  has  moved  so  far 
round  to  the  south,  that  Sorrento,  which  fronts  north, 
has  lost  sight  of  it. 

We  never  tire  of  watching  it,  thinking  that  it  could 
not  be  spared  from  the  landscape.  It  lies  only  three 
miles  from  the  curving  end  of  the  promontory,  and  is 
about  twenty  miles  due  south  of  Naples.  In  this  atmos- 
phere distances  dwindle.  The  nearest  land,  to  the  north- 
west, is  the  larger  island  of  Ischia,  distant  nearly  as  far 
as  Naples ;  yet  Capri  has  the  effect  of  being  anchored  off 
the  bay  to  guard  the  entrance.  It  is  really  a  rock,  three 
miles  and  a  half  long,  rising  straight  out  of  the  water, 
eight  hundred  feet  high  at  one  end,  and  eighteen  hun- 
dred feet  at  the  other,  with  a  depression  between.  If  it 
bad  been  chiselled  by  hand  and  set  there,  it  could  not 
268 


CAPRI.  269 


l»o  more   sharply  defined.      So  precipitous  are   its 

of  rock,  lh:it  there  are  only  two  fit   boat-landings.  —  the 

marina  on  the  north   side,  and   a    smaller  place  opposite. 

One  of  those,  light-haired   and  freckled    Englishmen, 

whose  pluck  exceeds  their  discretion,  rowed  round  the 
island  alone  in  rough  water,  last  suinmer,  against  the 
adxieeof  the  boatman,  and  unable  to  make  a  landing, 
and  weary  with  the  strife  of  the  waves,  was  in  consider- 
able peril. 

Sharp  and  clear  as  Capri  is  in  outline,  its  contour  is 
still  most  graceful  and  poetic'.  This  wonderful  atmo<- 
phere  softens  even  its  ruggedness,  and  drapes  it  with 
hues  of  enchanting  beauty.  Sometimes  the  ha/e  plavs 
fantastic  tricks  with  it,  —  a  cloud-cap  hangs  on  Monte 
Solaro,  or  a  mist  obscures  the  base,  and  the  mas-ive 
summits  of  rock  seem  to  float  in  the  air,  baseless  fabrics 
of  a  vision  that  the  rising  wind  will  carry  away  perhaps 
I  know  now  what  Homer  means  by  "wandering  islands.*' 
Shall  we  take  a  boat  and  sail  over  there,  and  so  destroy 
forever  another  island  of  the  imagination  ?  The  bane  of 
travel  is  the  destruction  of  illusions. 

We  like  to  talk  about  Capri,  and  to  talk  of  going 
there.  The  Sorrento  people  have  no  end  of  gossip 
about  the  wild  island;  and,  simple  and  primitive  as 
they  are,  Capri  is  still  more  out  of  the  world.  I  do 
not  know  what  enchantment  there  is  on  the  island  ; 
but  whoever  sets  foot  there,  they  say,  goes  insane  or 
dies  a  drunkard.  I  fancy  the  reason  of  this  is  found 
in  the  fact  that  the  Capri  girls  are  raving  beauties  I 
am  not  sure  but  the  monotony  of  being  anchored  off 
there  in  the  bay,  the  monotony  of  rocks  and  precipices 
that  goats  alone  can  climb,  the  monotony  of  a  tempera- 
ture that  scarcely  ever,  winter  and  summer,  is  below  55° 
or  above  75°  Fahrenheit  in-doors,  might  drive  one  into 
lunacy.  But  I  incline  to  think  it  is  due  to  the  hand- 
some Capri  girls. 

There  are  beautiful  girls  in  Sorrento,  with  a  beauty 
more  than  skin  deep,  a  glowing,  hidden  fire,  a  ripenesi 
23* 


270  CAPltl. 

like  that  of  the  grape  and  the  peach  which  grow  in  the 
soft  air  and  the  sun.  And  they  wither,  like  grapes  that 
hang  upon  the  stem.  I  have  never  seen  a  handsome, 
scarcely  a  decent-looking,  old  woman  here.  They  are 
lank  and  dry,  and  their  bones  ure  covered  with  parch- 
ment. One  of  these  brown-cheeked  girls,  with  large, 
longing  eyes,  gives  the  stranger  a  start,  now  and  then, 
when  he  meets  her  in  a  narrow  way  with  a  basket  of 
oranges  on  her  head.  I  hope  he  has  the  grace  to  go 
right  by.  Let  him  meditate  what  this  vision  of  beauty 
will  be  like  in  twenty  years. 

The  Capri  girls  are  famed  as  magnificent  beauties, 
but  they  fade  like  their  mainland  sisters.  The  Saracens 
used  to  descend  on  their  island,  and  carry  them  off  to 
their  harems.  The  English,  a  very  adventurous  people, 
who  have  no  harems,  have  followed  the  Saracens.  The 
young  lords  and  gentlemen  have  a  great  fondness  for 
Capri.  I  hear  gossip  enough  about  elopements,  and  not 
seldom  marriages,  with  the  island  girls,  —  bright  girls, 
with  the  Greek  mother-wit,  and  surpassingly  handsome ; 
but  they  do  not  bear  transportation  to  civilized  life  (any 
more  than  some  of  the  native  wines  do)  :  they  accept  no 
intellectual  culture ;  and  they  lose  their  beauty  as  they 
grow  old.  What  then  ?  The  young  English  blade,  who 
was  intoxicated  by  beauty  into  an  injudicious  match,  and 
might,  as  the  proverb  says,  have  gone  insane  if  he  could 
not  have  made  it,  takes  to  drink  now,  and  so  fulfils  the 
other  alternative.  Alas !  the  fatal  gift  of  beauty. 

But  I  do  not  think  Capri  is  so  dangerous  as  it  is  repre- 
sented. For  (of  course  we  went  to  Capri)  neither  at  the 
marina,  where  a  crowd  of  barelegged,  vociferous  maid- 
ens with  donkeys  assailed  us,  nor  in  the  village  above, 
did  I  see  many  girls  for  whom  and  one  little  isle  a  per- 
son would  forswear  the  world.  But  I  can  believe  that 
they  grow  here.  One  of  our  donkey  girls  was  a  hand- 
some, dark-skinned,  black-eyed  girl ;  but  her  little  sis- 
ter, a  mite  of  a  being  of  six  years,  who  could  scarcely 
*tep  over  the  small  stones  in  the  road,  and  was  forced 


CAPRI.  2^l 

to  lead  tin1  loi.key  l»y  her  sister  in  order  to  establish 
another  lien  on  us  tor  huomt  inann,  was  a  dirty  little, 
angel  in  rails,  and  her  great,  sott,  Mark  eyes  will  look 
somebody  into  the  a>ylum  or  the  drunkard's  grave  in 
time,  1  have  no  doubt.  There  was  a  stout,  manly,  hand- 
some little  fellow  of  five  years,  who  established  himself 
as  the  guide  and  friend  of  the  tallest,  of  our  party.  Hi* 
bat  was  nearly  gone  ;  he  was  sadly  out  of  repair  in  tin; 
rear;  his  short  legs  made  the  act  of  walking  absuid  ;  but 
he  trudged  up  the  hiil  with  a  certain  dignity.  And  there 
was  nothing  mercenary  about  his  attachment :  he  ami  his 
friend  got  upon  very  cordial  terms;  they  exchanged  gifts 
of  shells  and  copper  coin,  but  nothing  was  said  about  pay. 
Nearly  all  the  inhabitants,  young  and  old,  joined  us 
in  live.lv  procession,  up  the  winding  road  of  three-quar- 
ters of 'a  mile,  to  the  town.  At  the  deep  gate,  entering 
between  thick  walls,  we  stopped  to  look  at  the  sea.  The 
crowd  and  clamor  at  our  landing  bad  been  so  great,  that 
we  enjoyed  tbe  sight  of  the  quiet  old  woman  sitting  here 
in  tbe  sun,  and  tbe  few  beggars  almost  too  lazy  to  stretcb 
out  their  bands.  Within  tbe  gate  is  a  large  paved  square, 
\vitb  the  government  offices  and  tbe  tobacco-shop  on  one 
side,  and  tbe  church  opposite;  between  them,  up  a  llight 
of  broad  stone  steps,  is  tbe  Hotel  Tiberio.  Our  donkex  s 
walk  up  them  and  into  the  hotel.  Tbe  church  and  hotel 
are  six  hundred  years  old  ;  tbe  hotel  was  a  villa  belong- 
ing to  Joanna  II.  of  Naples.  We  climb  to  tbe  roof  of 
tbe  quaint  old  building,  and  sit  tbere  to  drink  in  the 
strange  Oriental  scene.  The  landlord  says  it  is  like 
Jaila  or  Jerusalem.  The  landlady,  an  Irish  woman 
from  Devonshire,  says  it  is  six  francs  a  day.  In  what 
friendly  intercourse  tbe  neighbors  can  sit  on  these  ilit 
roots  !  How  sightly  this  is,  and  yet  bow  sheltered  !  To 
the  east  is  the  height  where  Augustus,  and  after  him  Tibe- 
rius, built  palaces.  To  the  west,  up  that  vertical  wall, 
by  means  of  five  hundred  steps  cut  in  the  lace  of  tlie 
rock,  we  go  to  reach  the  table-land  of  Anacapii,  tho 
primitive  village  of  that  name,  hidden  from  view  here ; 


272  CAPRI. 

the  mediaeval  castle  of  Barbarossa,  which  hangs  over  a 
frightful  precipice;  and  the  height  of  Monte  Solaro. 
The  island  is  everywhere  strewn  with  Roman  ruins,  and 
with  faint  traces  of  the  Greeks. 

Capri  turns  out  not  to  be  a  barren  rock.  Broken  and 
picturesque  as  it  is,  it  is  yet  covered  with  vegetation. 
There  is  not  a  foot,  one  might  say  a  point,  of  soil  that 
does  not  bear  something  ;  and  there  is  not  a  niche  in  the 
rock,  where  a  scrap  of  dirt  will  stay,  that  is  not  made 
useful.  The  whole  island  is  terraced.  The  most  won- 
derful thing  about  it,  after  all,  is  its  masonry.  You  come 
to  think,  after  a  time,  that  the  island  is  not  natural  rock, 
but  a  mass  of  masonry.  If  the  labor  that  has  been 
expended  here,  only  to  erect  platforms  for  the  soil  to  rest 
on,  had  been  given  to  our  country,  it  would  have  built 
half  a  dozen  Pacific  railways,  and  cut  a  canal  through 
the  Isthmus. 

But  the  Blue  Grotto  ?  Oh,  yes  I  Is  it  so  blue  ?  That 
depends  upon  the  time  of  day,  the  sun,  the  clouds,  and 
something  upon  the  person  who  enters  it.  It  is  fright- 
fully blue  to  some.  We  bend  down  in  our  row-boat, 
slide  into  the  narrow  opening  which  is  three  feet  high, 
and,  passing  into  the  spacious  cavern,  remain  there  for 
half  an  hour.  It  is,  to  be  sure,  forty  feet  high,  and  a 
hundred  by  a  hundred  and  fifty  in  extent,  with  an  arched 
roof,  and  clear  water  for  a  floor.  The  water  appears  to 
be  as  deep  as  the  roof  is  high,  and  is  of  a  light,  beautiful 
blue,  in  contrast  with  the  deep  blue  of  the  bay.  At  the 
entrance  the  water  is  illuminated,  and  there  is  a  pleasant, 
mild  light  within  :  one  has  there  a  novel  subterranean 
sensation ;  but  it  did  not  remind  me  of  any  thing  I  have 
seen  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights."  I  have  seen  pictures  of 
it  that  were  much  finer. 

As  we  rowed  close  to  the  precipice  in  returning,  I  saw 
many  similar  openings,  not  so  deep,  and  perhaps  only 
sham  openings;  and  the  water-line  was  fretted  to  honey 
comb  by  the  eating  waves.  Beneath  the  water-line,  and 
revealed  here  and  there  when  the  waves  receded,  was  a 
line  of  bright  red  coral. 


THE   STORY   OF   FIAMETTA. 

AT  vespers  on  the  fete  of  St.  An  ton  i  no,  and  in  his 
church,  I  saw  the  Signorina  Fiametta.  I  stood 
leaning  against  a  marble  pillar  near  the  altar-steps, 
during  the  service,  when  I  saw  the  young  girl  kneeling 
cm  the  pavement  in  act  of  prayer.  Her  black  lace  veil 
had  fallen  a  little  back  from  her  head ;  and  there 
was  something  in  her  modest  attitude  and  graceful 
figure,  that  made  her  conspicuous  among  all  her  kneel- 
ing companions,  with  their  gay  kerchiefs  and  bright 
gowns.  When  she  rose  and  sat  down,  with  folded  hands 
and  eyes  downcast,  there  was  something  so  pensive  in 
her  subdued  mien,  that  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  from 
her.  To  say  that  she  had  the  rich  olive  complexion, 
with  the  gold  struggling  through,  large,  lustrous  black 
eyes,  and  harmonious  features,  is  only  to  make  a  weak 
photograph,  when  I  should  paint  a  picture  in  colors,  and 
infuse  it  with  the  sweet  loveliness  of  a  maiden  on  the  way 
to  sainthood.  I  was  sure  that  I  had  seen  her  before, 
looking  down  from  the  balcony  of  a  villa  just  beyond 
the  Roman  wall,  for  the  face  was  not  one  that  even  the 
most  unimpressible  idler  would  forget.  I  was  sure,  that, 
young  as  she  was,  she  had  already  a  history;  had  lived 
her  life,  and  now  walked  amid  these  groves  and  old 
streets  in  a  dream.  The  story  which  I  heard  is  not  loivj;. 
In  the  drawing-room  of  the  Villa  Nardi,  was  shown, 
and  offered  for  sale,  an  enormous  counterpane,  croclu -ted 
in  white  cotton.  Loop  by  loop,  it  must  have  been  an 
immense  labor  to  knit  it;  for  it  was  fashioned  in  pretty 

273 


274  THE  STORY  OF  FIAMETTA. 

devices,  and  when  spread  out  was  rich  and  showy  enough 
for  the  royal  bed  of  a  princess.  It  had  been  crocheted 
by  Fiametta  for  her  marriage,  the  only  portion  the  poor 
child  could  bring  to  that  sacrament.  Alas  !  the  wedding 
was  never  to  be ;  and  the  rich  work,  into  which  her  del- 
icate fingers  had  knit  so  many  maiden  dreams  and  hopes 
and  fears,  was  offered  for  sale  in  the  resort  of  strangers. 
It  could  not  havo  been  want  only  that  induced  her  to  put 
tliis  piece  of  work  in  the  market,  but  the  feeling,  also, 
that  the  time  never  again  could  return  when  she  would 
have  need  of  it.  I  had  no  desire  to  purchase  such  a  mel- 
ancholy coverlet,  but  I  could  well  enough  fancy  why  she 
would  wish  to  part  with  what  must  be  rather  a  pall  than 
a  decoration  in  her  little  chamber. 

Fiametta  lived  with  her  mother  in  a  little  villa,  the 
roof  of  which  is  in  sight  from  my  sunny  terrace  in  the 
Villa  Nardi,  just  to  the  left  of  the  square  old  convent 
tower,  rising  there  out  of  the  silver  olive-boughs,  —  a 
tumble-down  sort  of  villa,  with  a  flat  roof  and  odd  angles 
and  parapets,  in  the  midst  of  a  thrifty  but  small  grove  of 
lemons  and  oranges.  They  were  poor  enough,  or  would 
be  in  any  country  where  physical  wants  are.  greater  than 
here,  and  yet  did  not  belong  to  that  lowest  class,  the  young 
girls  of  which  are  little  more  than  beasts  of  burden, 
accustomed  to  act  as  porters,  bearing  about  on  their 
heads  great  loads  of  stone,  wood,  water,  and  baskets  of 
oranges  in  the  shipping  season.  She  could  not  have  been 
forced  to  such  labor,  or  she  never  would  have  had  the  time 
to  work  that  wonderful  coverlet. 

Giuseppe  was  an  honest  and  rather  handsome  young 
fellow  of  Sorrento,  industrious  and  good-natured,  who 
did  not  bother  his  head  much  about  learning.  He  was, 
however,  a  skilful  workman  in  the  celebrated  inlaid  and 
mosaic  wood-work  of  the  place,  and,  it  is  said,  had  even 
invented  some  new  figures  for  the  inlaid  pictures  in  col- 
ored woods.  He  had  a  little  fancy  for  the  sea  as  well, 
and  liked  to  pull  an  oar  over  to  Capri  on  occasion,  by 
which  he  could  earn  a  few  francs  easier  than  he  could 


THE  STORY  OF  Fl  AM  ETTA.  275 

saw  them  out  of  the  orange-wood.  For  I  lie  ^tupid  fel- 
low, who  could  nut  read  a  word  in  his  prayer-book,  had 
an  idea  of  thrift  in  his  head,  and  already,  I  suspect,  was 
laying  up  liras  with  an  object.  There  arc  one  or  two 
dandies  in  Sorrento  who  attempt  to  dress  as  they  do  in 
Naples,  (Jinscppe  was  nut  one  uf  these;  hut  tin-re  was 
not  a  gayer  or  handsomer  gallant  than  he  on  Sunday,  or 
one  mure  looked  at  by  the  Sorrento  girls,  when  lie  had 
on  his  clean  suit  and  his  fresh  red  Phrygian  cap.  At 
least  the  guod  Fiamctta  thought  so,  when  she  met  him 
\\\  church,  though  I  led  sure  she  did  nut  allow  even  his 
liandsome  figure  to  come  between  her  and  the  Virgin. 
At  any  rate,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  her  sentiments 
after  church,  when  she  and  her  mother  used  to  walk  with 
him,  alon-j:  the  winding  Massa  road  above  the  sea,  and 
stroll  down  to  the  shore  to  sit  on  the  greensward  over  the 
Temple  of  Hercules,  or  the  Roman  Baths,  or  the  remains 
of  the  villa  of  C.  Fulvius  Cunetatus  Coeles,  or  whatever 
those  ruins  subterranean  are,  there  on  the  Capo  di  Sor- 
rento. Of  eourse,  this  is  mere  conjecture  of  mine.  They 
may  have  gone  on  the  hills  behind  the  town  instead,  or 
they  may  have  stood  leaning  over  the  garden-wall  of  her 
mother's  little  villa,  looking  at  the  passers-by  in  the  deep 
lane,  thinking  about  nothing  in  the  world,  and  talking 
about  it  all  the  sunny  afternoon,  until  Iscliia  was  purple 
with  the  last  light,  and  the  olive  terraees  behind  them 
began  to  lose  their  gray  bloom.  All  1  do  know  is,  that 
they  were  in  love,  blossoming  out  in  it  as  the  almond- 
trees  do  here  in  Feburary ;  and  that  all  the  town  knew 
it,  and  saw  a  wedding  in  the  future,  just  as  plain  as  you 
can  see  Capri  from  the  heights  above  the  town. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  wonderful  counterpane 
began  to  grow,  to  the  continual  astonishment  of  Giu- 
seppe, to  whom  it  seemed  a  marvel  of  skill  and  patience, 
and  who  saw  what  l>ve  and  sweet  hope  Fiamctta  was 
knitting  into  it  with  her  deft  fnrj;ers.  I  declare,  as  I 
think  of  it,  the  white  cotton  spread  out  on  her  knees,  in 
6Ucli  contrast  to  the  rich  olive  of  her  comp'cxiju  and 


276  THE  STORY  OF  FI AM  ETTA. 

her  black  shiny  hair,  while  she  knits  away  so  merrily, 
glancing  up  occasionally  with  those  liquid,  laugliing  eyeg 
to  Giuseppe,  who  is  watching  her  as  ii'  she  were  an  an^el 
right  out  of  the  blue  sky,  I  am  tempted  not  to  tell  this 
story  further,  but  to  leave  the  happy  two  there  at  the 
open  gate  of  life,  and  to  believe  that  they  entered  in. 

This  was  about  the  time  of  the  change  of  government, 
after  this  region  had  come  to  be  a  part  of  the  Kingdom 
of  Italy.  Alter  the  first  excitement  was  over,  and  the 
simple  people  found  they  were  not  all  made  rich,  nor 
raised  to  a  condition  in  which  they  could  live  without 
work,  there  began  to  be  some  dissatisfaction.  Why  the 
convents  need  have  been  suppressed,  and  especially  the 
poor  nuns  packed  off,  they  couldn't  see ;  and  then  the 
taxes  were  heavier  than  ever  before;  instead  of  being 
supported  by  the  Government,  they  had  to  support  it : 
arid,  worst  of  all,  the  able  youn<j  fellows  must  still  go  for 
soldiers.  Just  as  one  was  learning  his  trade,  or  perhaps 
had  acquired  it,  and  was  ready  to  earn  his  living  and 
begin  to  make  a  home  for  his  wife,  he  must  pass  the 
three  best  years  of  his  life  in  the  army.  The  conscrip- 
tion was  relentless. 

The  time  came  to  Giuseppe,  as  it  did  to  the  others. 
I  never  heard  but  he  was  brave  enough ;  there  was  no 
storm  on  the  Mediterranean  that  he  dare  not  face  in  his 
little  boat;  and  he  would  not  have  objected  to  a  cam- 
paign with  the  red  shirts  of  Garibaldi.  But  to  be  torn 
away  from  his  occupations  by  which  he  was  daily  laying 
aside  a  little  for  himself  and  Fiametta,  and  to  leave  her 
for  three  years,  —  that  seemed  dreadful  to  him.  Three 
years  is  a  long  time ;  and  though  he  1  ad  no  doubt  of  the 
pretty  Fiametta,  yet  women  are  women,  said  the  shrewd 
fellow  to  himself,  and  who  knows  what  iLight  happen,  if 
a  gallant  came  along  who  could  read  and  write,  as  Fi- 
ametta could,  and,  besides,  could  play  the  guitar? 

The  result  was,  that  Giuseppe  did  not  appear  at  the 
mustering-oflice  on  the  day  set ;  and,  when  the  file  of 
soldiers  came  ibrhiin,  he  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  lie 


THE  STORY  OF  1<1A.M  ETTA.  277 

had  fled  to  (lie  mountains.  I  scarcely  know  what  hi* 
plan  \vas.  but  la-  probably  trusted  losnine  good  luck  to 
escape  the  conscription  altogether,  if  he  could  slum  it 
now;  and.  at  least,  I  know  that  he  had  many  comrades 
who  did  ihe  same,  so  that  at  times  the  mountains  were 
full  of  young  fellows  who  were  lurking  in  them  to  eseape 
th«i  soldiers.  And  they  fared  very  roughly  usually,  and 
sometimes  nearly  perished  from  hunger;  lor  though  the 
sympathies  of  the  peasants  were  undoubtedly  with  the 
</mi*i  outlaws  rather  than  with  the  carbineers,  yet  the 
latter  were  at  every  hamlet  in  the  hills,  and  li  d>le  to 
vUit  every  hut,  so  that  any  relief  exh  tided  to  the.  fugi- 
tives was  attended  with  threat  danger;  and,  besides,  the, 
hunted  men  did  not  dare  to  Venture  from  their  retreats. 
Thus  outlawed  and  driven  to  desperation  by  hunger, 
the-e  iu_iitivcs,  whom  nobody  can  defend  for  running 
away  from  their  duties  as  citizens,  became  brigands.  A 
cynical  German,  who  was  taken  by  them  some  year- 
oil  the  road  to  Castellamare,  a  few  miles  above  here,  and 
lie  Id  for  ransom,  declared  that  they  wrere  the  most  honest 
fellows  he  had  seen  in  Italy  ;  but  I  never  could  see  that 
he  intended  the  remark  as  any  compliment  to  them.  It 
is  certain  that  the  inhabitants  of  all  these  towns  held 
very  loose  ideas  on  the  subject  of  brigandage:  the  poor 
fellows,  they  used  to  say,  only  robbed  because  they  were 
hungry,  and  they  must  live  somehow. 

What  Fiametta  thought,  down  in  her  heart,  is  not 
told:  but  I  presume  she  shared  the  feelings  «.f  thn«^ 
about  her  concerning  the  brigands,  and,  when  sac  }*•  -:rr  I 
that  Giuseppe  had  joined  them,  was  more  anx'.-.-u*-  f'.-r  ilie 
safety  of  his  body  than  of  his  soul  ;  though  r  warrant  si  <• 
did  not  forget  either,  in  her  prayers  to  tiie  Virgin  an  ! 
St.  Antonino.  And  yet  those  must  have  been  days, 
•weeks,  month?,  of  terrible  anxiety  to  the  poor  child  ;  an  1 
if  she  worked  away  at  the  counterpane,  netting  in  that 
elaborate  border,  as  I  have  no  doubt  she  did,  it  must 
have  been  with  ;:  sad  heart  and  doubtful  lingers.  1 
thiiik  that  one  of  the  psychological  sensitives  could  dig- 
24 


278  THE  STORY  OF  FIAMETTA. 

tinguish  the  parts  of  the  bed-spread  that  were  knit  in  the 
sunny  days  from  those  knit  in  the  long  hours  of  care  and 
deepening  anxiety. 

It  was  rarely  that  she  received  any  message  from  him, 
and  it  was  then  only  verbal  and  of  the  briefest ;  he  was 
in  the  mountains  above  Amalfi ;  one  day  he  had  come 
so  far  round  as  the  top  of  the  Great  St.  Angelo,  from 
which  he  could  look  down  upon  the /warn?  of  Sorrento, 
where  the  little  Fiametta  was ;  or  he  had  been  on  the 
hills  near  Salerno,  hunted  and  hungry  ;  or  his  company 
had  descended  upon  some  travellers  going  to  Paestum, 
made  a  successful  haul,  and  escaped  into  the  steep 
mountains  beyond.  He  didn't  intend  to  become  a  regu- 
lar bandit,  not  at  all.  He  hoped  that  something  might 
happen  so  that  he  could  steal  back  into  Sorrento,  un- 
marked by  the  Government;  or,  at  least,  that  he  could 
escape  away  to  some  other  country  or  island,  where  Fi- 
ametta could  join  him.  Did  she  love  him  yet,  as  in  the 
old,  happy  days  ?  As  for  him,  she  was  now  every  thing 
to  him  ;  and  he  would  willingly  serve  three  or  thirty 
years  in  the  army,  if  the  Government  could  forget  he  had 
been  a  brigand,  and  permit  him  to  have  a  little  home 
with  Fiametta  at  the  end  of  the  probation.  There  was 
not  much  comfort  in  all  this,  but  the  simple  fellow  could 
not  send  any  thing  more  cheerful ;  and  I  think  it  used 
to  feed  the  little  maiden's  heart  to  hear  from  him,  even 
in  this  downcast  mood,  for  his  love  for  her  was  a  dear 
certainty,  and  his  absence  and  wild  life  did  not  dim  it. 

My  informant  does  not  know  how  long  this  painful 
life  went  on,  nor  does  it  matter  much.  There  came  a 
day  when  the  Government  was  shamed  into  new  vigor 
against  the  brigands.  Some  English  people  of  conse- 
quence (the  German  of  whom  I  have  spoken  was  with 
them)  had  been  captured,  and  it  had  cost  them  a  heavy 
ransom.  The  number  of  the  carbineers  was  quadrupled 
in  the  infested  districts,  soldiers  penetrated  the  fasi  nesses 
of  the  hills,  there  were  daily  fights  with  the  banditti ;  and, 
to  show  that  this  was  no  sham,  some  of  them  were  actu- 


THE  STOR  Y  OF  FIA ME TTA.  279 

ally  shot,  and  others  were  taken  and  thrown  into  prison. 
Among  those  who  were  not  afraid  to  stand  and  light,  ami 
who  would  not  l»e  raptured,  was  our  (Iiu>eppe.  One 
day  the  India  newspaper  of  Naples  had  an  areount  of  a 
fight  with  brigands;  and  in  the  list  of  those  who  fell  was 

the  name  of  Giuseppe ,  of  Sorrento,  shot  through 

the  head,  as  he  ought  to  have  been,  and  buried  without 
funeral  among  the  roeks. 

This  was  all.  But,  when  the  news  was  read  in  the 
little  post-office  in  Sorrento,  it  seemed  a  great  deal  more 
than  it  does  as  I  write  it;  for,  if  Giuseppe  had  an  enemy 
in  the  village,  it  was  not  among  the  people,  and  not  one 
who  heard  the  news  did  not  think  at  onee  of  the  poor 
girl  to  whom  it  would  be  more  than  a  bullet  through  the 
heart.  And  so  it  was.  The  slender  hope  of  her  life 
then  went  out.  I  am  told  that  there  was  little  change 
outwardly,  and  that  she  was  as  lovely  as  before ;  but  a 
great  cloud  of  sadness  came  over  her,  in  which  she  was 
always  enveloped,  whether  she  sat  at  home,  or  walked 
abroad  in  the  places  where  she  and  Giuseppe  used  to 
wander.  The  simple  people  respected  her  grief,  and 
always  made  a  tender-hearted  stillness  when  the  berett 
little  maiden  went  through  the  streets,  —  a  stillness 
which  she  never  noticed,  for  she  never  noticed  any  tiling 
apparently.  The  bishop  himself  when  he  walked 
abroad  could  not  be  treated  with  more  respect. 

This  was  all  the  story  of  the  sweet  Fiametta  that  was 
confided  to  me.  And  afterwards,  as  I  recalled  her  pen- 
sive face  that  evening  as  she  kneeled  at  vespers,  I  could 
not  say  whether,  after  all,  she  was  altogether  to  be 
xutied,  in  the  holy  isolation  of  her  grief,  which  I  am  sure 
sanctified  her,  and,  in  some  sort,  made  her  life  complete. 
For  I  take  it  that  life,  even  in  this  sunny  Sorrento,  i2 
not  alone  a  matter  of  time. 


ST.   MARIA  A  CASTELLO. 

THE  Great  St.  Angelo  and  that  region  are  supposed 
to  be  the  haunts  of  brigands.  From  those  heights 
they  spy  out  the  land,  and  from  thence  have,  more  than 
once,  descended  upon  the  sea-road  between  Castellamare 
and  Sorrento,  and  caught  up  English  and  German  travel- 
lers. This  elevation  commands,  also,  the  Paestum  way. 
We  have  no  faith  in  brigands  in  these  days ;  for,  in  all 
our  remote  and  lonely  explorations  of  this  promontory, 
we  have  never  met  any  but  the  most  simple-hearted  and 
good-natured  people,  who  were  quite  as  much  afraid  of 
us  as  we  were  of  them.  But  there  are  not  wanting 
stories,  every  day,  to  keep  alive  the  imagination  of 
tourists. 

We  are  waiting  in  the  garden  this  sunny,  enticing 
morning — just  the  day  for  a  tramp  among  the  purple 
hills  —  for  our  friend,  the  long  Englishman,  who  prom- 
ised, over  night,  to  go  with  us.  This  excellent,  good- 
natured  giant,  whose  head  rubs  the  ceiling  of  any  room 
in  the  house,  has  a  wife  who  is  fond  of  him,  and  in  great 
dread  of  the  brigands.  He  comes  down  with  a  sheepish 
air,  at  length,  and  informs  us  that  his  wife  won't  let  him 

pfO. 

"  Of  course  I  can  go,  if  I  like,"  he  adds.  "  But  the 
fact  if,  I  haven't  slept  much  all  nio;ht:  ?he  kept  asking 
me  if  I  was  going!'*  On  the  whole,  the  giant  don't 
care  to  go.  There  are  things  more  to  be  feared  than 
brigands. 

The  expedition  Is,  therefore,  reduced  to  two  unarmed 


ST.  MARIA  A  CASTE LLO.  281 

persons.  In  the  piazza  we  pick  up  a  donkey  and  hi* 
driver,  for  use  in  case  of  accident  ;  and,  mounting  tlio 
driver  on  the  donkey,  —  an  arrangement  that  Beena  en- 
tirely satisfactory  to  him.  —  we  set  forward.  If  any  thin^ 
can  bring  back  youth,  it  is  a  day  ot' certain  snnsliine  and 
a  l)it  of  unexplored  country  ahead,  with  a  whole  day  in 
which  to  wander  in  it  without  a  care  or  a  responsibility. 
We  walk  bri>kly  up  the  walled  road  of  the  jt'mno.  strik- 
ing at  the  overhanging  golden  fruit  with  our  ft 
greeting  the  orange-uirls  who  come  down  the  >ide  lanes : 
dialling  with  the  drivers,  the  bc^-jurs.  the  old  women 
who  sit  in  the  sun ;  looking  into  the  open  doors  of  houses 
and  shops  upon  women  weavinir,  hoys  and  'jirls  slicing 
up  heaps  of  oranges,  upon  the  makers  of  macaroni,  the 
sellers  of  sour  wine,  the  merry  shoemakers,  who-e  little 
dens  are  centres  of  gossip  here  as  in  all  the  East:  the 
whole  life  of  these  people  is  open  and  social ;  to  be  on 
the  street  is  to  be  at  home. 

We  wind  up  the  steep  hill  behind  Meta,  every  foot  of 
which  is  terraced  for  olive-trees,  getting,  at  length,  views, 
over  the  wayside  wall,  of  the  plain  and  bay,  and  rising 
into  the  purer  air  and  the  scent  of  flowers  and  other 
sinus  of  coming  spring,  to  the  little  village  of  Arola, 
with  its  church  and  bell,  its  beggars  and  idlers, — just  a 
little  street  of  houses  jammed  in  between  the  hills  of 
Camaldoli  and  Pergola,  both  of  which  we  know  well. 

Upon  the  clitF  by  Pergola  is  a  stone  house,  in  front  of 
which  I  like  to  lie,  looking  straight  down  a  thousand  or 
two  feet  upon  the  roofs  of  Meta,  the  map  of  the  plain, 
and  the  always  fascinating  bay.  I  went  down  the  back- 
bone of  the  limestone  rid^e  towards  the  sea  the  other 
afternoon,  before  sunset,  and  unexpectedly  came  upon  a 
group  of  little  stone  c<»tta_r'-<  on  ;i  ledge,  which  are  quite 
hidden  from  below.  The  inhabitants  wt-re  as  much  snr- 
pri.M/d  to  see  a  foreigner  break  through  their  sedition  as 
I  was  to  come  upon  them.  However,  they  soon  recov- 
ered presence  of  min  1  to  ask  tor  a  little  money.  Half 
a  dozen  old  hags  with  the  parchment  aln>  -at  upon  the 
24* 


282  ST.  MARIA  A  CASTELLO. 

rocks  in  the  sun,  spinning  from  distaffs,  exactly  as  their 
ancestors  did  in  Greece  two  thousand  years  ago,  I  doubt 
not.  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  true,  as  Tasso  wrote,  that 
this  climate  is  so  temperate  and  serene  that  one  almost 
becomes  immortal  in  it.  Since  two  thousand  years  all 
these  coasts  have  changed  more  or  less,  risen  and  sunk, 
and  the  temples  and  palaces  of  two  civilizations  have 
tumbled  into  the  sea.  Yet  I  do  not  know  but  these 
tranquil  old  women  have  been  sitting  here  on  the  rocks 
all  the  while,  high  above  change  and  worry  and  decay, 
gossiping  and  spinning,  like  Fates.  Their  yarn  must  be 
uncanny. 

But  we  wander.  It  is  difficult  to  go  to  any  particular 
place  here ;  impossible  to  write  of  it  in  a  direct  manner. 
Our  mule-path  continues  most  delightful,  by  slopes  of 
green  orchards  nestled  in  sheltered  places,  winding  round 
gorges,  deep  and  ragged  with  loose  stones,  and  groups 
of  rocks  standing  on  the  edge  of  precipices,  like  mediae- 
val towers,  and  through  village  after  village  tucked  away 
in  the  hills.  The  abundance  of  population  is  a  constant 
surprise.  As  we  proceed,  the  people  are  wilder  and 
much  more  curious  about  us,  having,  it  is  evident,  seen 
few  strangers  lately.  Women  and  children,  half-dressed 
in  dirty  rags  which  do  not  hide  the  form,  come  out  from 
their  low  stone  huts  upon  the  windy  terraces,  and  stand, 
arms  akimbo,  staring  at  us,  and,  not  seldom,  hailing  us 
in  harsh  voices.  Their  sole  dress  is  often  a  single  split 
and  torn  gown,  not  reaching  to  the  bare  knees,  evidently 
the  original  of  those  in  the  Naples  ballet  (it  will,  no  doubt, 
be  different  when  those  creatures  exchange  the  ballet  for 
the  ballot)  ;  and,  with  their  tangled  locks  and  dirty  faces, 
they  seem  rather  beasts  than  women.  Are  their  hus- 
bands brigands,  and  are  they  in  wait  for  us  in  the  chest- 
nut grove  yonder  ? 

The  grove  is  charming ;  and  the  men  we  meet  there 
gathering  sticks  are  not  so  surly  as  the  women.  They 
point  the  way ;  and,  when  we  emerge  from  the  wood,  St. 
Maria  a  Castello  is  before  us  on  a  "height,  its  white  and 


ST.  MARIA  A  CASTELLO.  283 

red  church  shining  in  the  sun.  AW  climb  up  to  it.  In 
trout  is  a  broad,  flagged  terrace ;  ando;:  ihecd-jv  an- deep 
wells  in  the  rock,  from  which  we*  draw  cool  water.  Plen- 
tifully victualed,  one  could  stand  a  siege  here,  and  per- 
haps did  in  the  gamey  Middle  Ages.  Monk  or  soldier 
need  not  wish  a  ])leasanter  place  to  lounge.  Adjoining 
the  church,  but  lower,  is  a  long,  low  building  with  three 
rooms,  at  once  house  and  stable,  the  stable  in  the  centre, 
though  all  of  them  have  hay  in  the  lofts.  The  rooms  do 
not  communicate.  That  is  the  whole  of  the  town  of  St. 
Maria  a  Castello. 

In  one  of  the  apartments,  some  rough-looking  peasants 
are  eating  dinner,  a  frugal  meal :  a  dish  of  unclean  po- 
lenta, a  plate  of  grated  cheese,  a  b?>-Vot  of  wormy  figs, 
and  some  sour  red  wine;  no  In  meat.  They 

looked  at  us  askance,  and  with  no  ..0,i  of  hospitality. 
We  made  friends,  however,  with  the  ragged  children, 
one  of  whom  took  great  delight  in  exhibiting  his  litter  of 
puppies;  and  we  at  length  so  far  worked  into  the  good 
graces  of  the  family,  that  the  mother  was  prevailed  upon 
to  get  us  some  milk  and  eggs.  I  followed  the  woman 
into  one  of  the  apartments  to  superintend  the  cooking 
of  the  eggs.  It  was  a  mere  den,  with  an  earth  floor.  A 
fire  of  twigs  was  kindled  against  the  farther  wall,  and  a 
little  girl,  half-naked,  carrying  a  baby  still  more  economi- 
cally clad,  was  stooping  down  to  blow  the  smudge  into  a 
flame.  The  smoke,  some  of  it,  went  over  our  heads  out 
at  the  door.  We  boiled  the  eggs.  We  desired  salt ;  and 
the  woman  brought  us  pepper  in  the  berry.  We  insisted 
on  salt,  and  at  length  got  the  rock  variety,  which  we 
pounded  on  the  rocks.  We  ate  our  eggs  and  drank  our 
milk  on  the  terrace,  with  the  entire  family  interested 
spectators.  The  men  were  the  hardest-looking  ruffians 
we  had  met  yet :  they  were  making  a  bit  of  road  near 
by,  but  they  seemed  capable  of  turning  Iheir  hands  to 
easier  money-getting ;  and  there  couldn't  be  a  more  con- 
venient place  than  this. 
-  When  our  lepast  was  over,  and  I  had  drank  a  glass 


284  ST.  MARIA  A  CASTELLO. 

of  wine  with  the  proprietor,  I  offered  to  pay  him,  ten 
dering  what  I  knew  was  a  fair  price  in  this  region. 
With  some  indignation  of  gesture,  he  refused  it,  intimat- 
ing that  it  was  too  little.  He  seemed  to  be  seeking  an 
excuse  for  a  quarrel  with  us;  so  I  pocketed  the  affront, 
money  and  all,  and  turned  away.  He  appeared  to  be 
surprised,  and  going  in-doors  presently  came  out  with  a 
bottle  of  wine  and  glasses,  and  followed  us  down  upon 
the  rocks,  pressing  us  to  drink.  Most  singular  conduct ; 
no  doubt  drugged  wine ;  travellers  put  into  deep  sleep ; 
robbed  ;  thrown  over  precipice ;  diplomatic  correspond- 
ence, flattering,  but  no  compensation  to  them.  Either 
this,  or  a  case  of  hospitality.  We  declined  to  drink, 
and  the  brigand  went  away. 

We  sat  down  upon  the  jutting  ledge  of  a  precipice, 
the  like  of  which  is  not  in  the  world :  on  our  left,  the 
rocky,  bare  side  of  St.  Angelo,  against  which  the  sun- 
shine dashes  in  waves ;  below  us,  sheer  down  two  thou- 
sand feet,  the  city  of  Positano,  a  nest  of  brown  houses, 
thickly  clustered  on  a  conical  spur,  and  lying  along  the 
shore,  the  home  of  three  thousand  people,  —  with  a  run- 
ning jump  I  think  I  could  land  in  the  midst  of  it,  —  a 
pygmy  city,  inhabited  by  mites,  as  we  look  down  upon  it ; 
a  little  beach  of  white  sand,  a  sail-boat  lying  on  it,  and 
some  fishermen  just  embarking;  a  long  hotel  on  the 
beach;  beyond,  by  the  green  shore,  a  country  seat 
charmingly  situated  amid  trees  and  vines ;  higher  up,  the 
ravine-seamed  hill,  little  stone  huts,  bits  of  ruin,  towers, 
arches.  How  still  it  is  1  All  the  stiller  that  I  can,  now 
and  then,  catch  the  sound  of  an  axe,  and  hear  the  shouts 
of  some  children  in  a  garden  below.  How  still  the  sea 
is  1  How  many  ages  has  it  been  so  ?  Does  the  purple 
mist  always  hang  there  upon  the  waters  of  Salerno  Bay, 
forever  hiding  from  the  gaze  Pa3stum  and  its  temples, 
and  all  that  shore  which  is  so  much  more  Grecian  than 
Roman  ? 

Aftei  all,  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  turn  to  the  towering 
rock  of  St.  Angelo ;  not  a  tree,  not  a  shrub,  not  a  spire 


.S7:  MARIA  A  CASTELLO.  285 

of  <rraps,  on  its  perpendicular  side.  We  try  to  analyze 
;isi'aeti<>n  there  is  in  siirh  a  l)ald,  treeless,  verdure- 
le«  ma«.  We  can  grasp  it  intelleetually,  in  iN  ^harp 
solidity,  which  is  undisturbed  by  any  ornament:  it  is,  to 
the  mind,  like  some  complete  intellectual  performance  ; 
the  mind  rests  on  it,  like  a  demonstration  in  Kudid. 
And  yet  what  a  color  of  beauty  it  takes  on  in  the 
distance  ! 

When  we  return,  the  bandits  have  all  gone  to  their 
road-making:  the  suspicious  landlord  is  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  We  call  the  woman  from  the  field,  and  give  her 
money,  which  she  seemed  not  to  expect,  and  for  which 
she  shows  no  gratitude.  Life  appears  to  be  indifferent 
to  these  peopte.  But,  if  these  be  brigands,  we  prefer 
them  to  those  of  Naples,  and  even  to  the  inn-keepers  of 
England.  As  we  saunter  home  in  the  pleasant  after- 
noon, the  vesper-bells  are  calling  to  each  other,  making 
the  sweetest  echoes  of  peace  everywhere  in  the  hills,  and 
all  the  piano  is  jubilant  with  them,  as  we  come  down 
the  steeps  at  sunset. 

"  You  see  there  was  no  danger,"  said  the  giant  to  his 
wife,  that  evening,  at  the  supper-table. 

"  You  would  have  found  there  was  danger,  if  you  had 
gone,"  returned  the  wife  of  the  giant  significantly. 


THE  MYTH   OF   THE   SIRENS. 

I  LIKE  to  walk  upon  the  encircling  ridge  behind  Sor- 
rento, which  commands  both  bays.  From  there  I 
can  look  down  upon  the  Isles  of  the  Sirens.  The  top  is 
a  broad,  windy  strip  of  pasture,  which  falls  off  abruptly 
to  the  Bay  of  Salerno  on  the  south :  a  regular  embank- 
ment of  earth  rims  along  the  side  of  the  precipitous 
steeps,  towards  Sorrento.  It  appears  to  be  a  line  of 
defence  for  musketry,  such  as  our  armies  used  to  throw 
up  :  whether  the  French,  who  conducted  siege  operations 
from  this  promontory  on  Capri,  under  Murat,  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  it,  does  not  appear. 

Walking  there  yesterday,  we  met  a  woman  —  shep- 
herdess, cowherd,  or  siren  —  standing  guard  over  three 
steers  while  they  fed  ;  a  scantily-clad,  brown  woman, 
who  had  a  distaff  in  her  hand,  and  spun  the  flax  as  she 
watched  the  straying  cattle,  —  an  example  of  double 
industry  which  the  men  who  tend  herds  never  imitate. 
Very  likely  her  ancestors  so  spun  and  tended  cattle  on 
the  plains  of  Thessaly.  We  gave  the  rigid  woman  good- 
morning,  but  she  did  not  heed  or  reply ;  we  made  some 
inquiries  as  to  paths,  but  she  ignored  us ;  we  bade  her 
good-day,  and  she  scowled  at  us :  she  only  spun.  She 
was  so  out  of  tune  with  the  people,  and  the  gentle  influ- 
ences of  this  region,  that  we  could  only  regard  her  as  an 
anomaly,  —  the  representative  of  some  perversity  and  evil 
genius,  which,  no  doubt,  lurks  here  as  it  does  elsewhere  in 
the  world.  She  could  noi  have  descended  from  eithef 
286 


THE  MYTH  OF  THE  SIRENS.  287 

of  the  groups  of  the  Sirens ;  for  she  was  not  fascinating 
enough  to  1)0  fatal. 

I  like  to  look  upon  these  islets  or  rocks  of  the  Sirens, 
barren  and  desolate,  with  a  few  ruins  of  the  Roman  timn 
and  remains  of  the  Middle- Age  prisons  of  the  do. 
Ainalfi  ;  but  I  do  not  care  to  dissipate  any  illusions  by 
going  to  them.  I  remember  how  the  Sirens  sat  on  llmv- 
ery  meads  by  the  shore,  and  sang,  and  are  vulgarly 
supposed  to  have  allured  passing  mariners  to  a  life  of 
ignoble  pleasure,  and  then  let  them  perish,  hungry  with 
all  unsatisfied  longings.  The  bones  of  these  unfortunates, 
whitening  on  the  rocks,  of  which  Virgil  speaks,  I  could 
not  see.  Indeed,  I  think  any  one  who  lingers  long  in  this 
region  will  doubt  if  they  were  ever  there,  and  will  come 
to  believe  that  the  characters  of  the  Sirens  are  popularly 
misconceived.  Allowing  Ulysses  to  be  only  another 
name  for  the  sun-god,  who  appears  in  myths  as  Indra, 
Apollo,  William  Tell,  the  sure-hitter,  the  great  archer, 
whose  arrows  are  sunbeams,  it  is  a  degrading  conception 
of  him  that  he  was  obliged  to  lash  himself  to  the  mast 
when  he  went  into  action  with  the  Sirens,  like  Farragut 
at  Mobile,  though  for  a  very  different  reason.  We  should 
be  forced  to  believe  that  Ulysses  was  not  free  from  the 
basest  mortal  longings,  and  that  he  had  not  strength  of 
mind  to  resist  them,  but  must  put  himself  in  durance  ;  as 
our  moderns,  who  cannot  control  their  desires,  go  into 
inebriate  asylums. 

Mr.  Ruskin  says  that  "  the  Sirens  are  the  great  con- 
stant desires,  the  infinite  sicknesses  of  heart,  which, 
rightly  placed,  give  life,  and,  wrongly  placed,  waste  it 
away ;  so  that  there  are  two  groups  of  Sirens,  —  one  noble 
and  saving,  as  the  other  is  fatal."  Unfortunately  we  are 
all,  as  were  the  Greeks,  ministered  unto  by  both  those 
groups,  but  can  fortunately,  on  the  other  hand,  choose 
which  group  we  will  listen  to  the  singing  of,  though  the 
strains  are  somewhat  mingled  :  as.  for  instance,  in  tin* 
modern  opera,  where  the  music  (juile  as  often  H 
life  away,  as  gives  to  it  the  energy  of  pure  doiiv.  \  »-t, 


288  THE  MYTH  OF  THE  SIRENS. 

if  I  were  to  locate  the  Sirens  geographically,  I  should 
place  the  beneficent  desires  on  this  coast,  and  the  danger- 
ous ones  on  that  of  wicked  Baiae ;  to  which  group  the 
founder  of  Naples  no  doubt  belonged. 

Nowhere,  perhaps,  can  one  come  nearer  to  the  beau- 
tiful myths  of  Greece,  the  springlike  freshness  of  the 
idyllic  and  heroic  age,  than  on  this  Sorrentine  promon- 
tory. It  was  no  chance  that  made  these  coasts  the  home 
of  the  kind  old  monarch  Eolus,  inventor  of  sails  and 
storm-signals.  On  the  Telegrafo  di  Mare  Cuccola  is  a 
ruie  signal-apparatus  for  communication  with  Capri, — 
to  ascertain  if  wind  and  wave  are  propitious  for  entrance 
to  the  Blue  Grotto,  —  which  probably  was  not  erected  by 
Eolus,  although  he  doubtless  used  this  sightly  spot  as 
one  of  his  stations.  That  he  dwelt  here,  in  great  content, 
with  his  six  sons  and  six  daughters,  the  Months,  is  nearly 
certain  ;  and  I  feel  as  sure  that  the  Sirens,  whose  islands 
were  close  at  hand,  were  elevators  and  not  destroyers  of 
the  primitive  races  living  here. 

It  seems  to  me  this  must  be  so ;  because  the  pilgrim, 
who  surrenders  himself  to  the  influences  of  these  peace- 
ful and  sun-inundated  coasts,  under  this  sky  which  the 
bright  Athena  loved  and  loves,  loses,  by  and  by,  those 
longings  and  heart-sicknesses  which  waste  away  his  life, 
and  comes  under  the  dominion,  more  and  more,  of  those 
constant  desires  after  that  which  is  peaceful  and  endur- 
ing and  has  the  saving  quality  of  purity.  I  know,  indeed, 
that  it  is  not  always  so ;  and  that,  as  Boreas  is  a  better 
nurse  of  rugged  virtue  than  Zephyr,  so  the  soft  influences 
of  this  clime  only  minister  to  the  fatal  desires  of  some  : 
and  such  are  likely  to  sail  speedily  back  to  Naples. 

The  Sirens,  indeed,  are  everywhere  ;  and  I  do  not  know 
that  we  can  go  anywhere  that  we  shall  escape  the  infi- 
nite longings,  or  satisfy  them.  Here,  in  the  purple  twi- 
light of  history,  they  offered  men  the  choice  of  good  and 
evil.  I  have  a  fancy,  that,  in  stepping  out  of  the  whirl 
of  modern  life  upon  a  quiet  headland,  so  blessed  of  two 
powers,  the  air  and  the  sea,  we  are  able  to  come  to  a 


THE  MYTH  OF  THE  SIRENS.  289 

truer  perception  of  the  drift  oftlic  eternal  desires  within 
us.  lint  I  cannot  say  whether  it  is  a  subtle  fascination, 
linked  with  these  mythic  and  moral  iniluences,  or  only 
the  physical  loveliness  of  this  promontory,  that  lures 
travellers  hither,  and  detains  them  on  ilowery  meada. 


UNIVEESITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


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395676 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


